Before a Live Studio Audience
by Mostly Harmless III
Summary: Lois Lane is a terrible boss. Network lackey Clark Kent has to film a TV show in Gotham, but he's stuck with Matches Malone. The worst. Detective. Ever. There's a killer on the loose and Clark keeps dreaming of flying. At least Matches' partner is sexy...
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Before a Live Studio Audience (Transcripts from an un-aired episode of 'US Cops')**  
Summary:** Sometimes, Lois Lane is a terrible boss. Network lackey Clark Kent's on a mission to make a TV show on schedule. Unfortunately, he's stuck filming in Gotham with Matches Malone. The worst. Detective. Ever. Matches is hiding something, a murderer's on the loose, and Clark keeps dreaming about flying. Throw in Matches' sexy partner and this looks like a job for Superman. Only the big, blue Boy Scout is missing...**  
Words:** A little over 3000**  
Pairings:** Matches/Clark, Bruce/Clark, Sir Hemingford Gray/Clark, Dick/Bruce (sorta…). Other characters: Lois Lane, Robbie Malone, Tim Drake, Jim Gordon, Montoya, Bullock.**  
Warnings:** AU. Language, violence, identity nuttiness. I don't even have a beta so read at your own risk. Smut on the way.**  
Spoilers:** Nothing really, but some of the ideas from 52 are in play here. Welcome to one of many Earths.**  
Rating: **R  
**Author's Note:** I started thinking about how AMAZING Bruce and Clark's acting skills must be. Then I started to wonder: HOW good are they, really? This fic is the result of that big, long think. I'm back to comedy, which means the romance suffers for the one-liners. Bada-bing! As far as updating goes, I found this on my computer and don't actually remember writing it! There's got to be a sequel on my hard drive somewhere…Wish me luck! It was fun reading it and making changes, but...hell, you know I never finish anything.

* * *

Before a Live Studio Audience

* * *

The tagline from the movie "Killer Clowns from Outer Space" was "In space, no one eats ice cream."

Back in college, he had thought it was funny. Now he thought it should have been something like, "In space, you can drift for a really, really long time so long as nothing's there to stop you from going the direction you're heading."

Which wasn't as funny, but more fitting.

There was a green flash that turned into a green pulse and then just overwhelming green-ness in general.

And he was tumbling.

Stars flipped over him and behind him, acrobatic and speedy. Technically, he was the one flipping, but what difference did it really make?

At least he had a final destination, if what looped in front of him at intervals was any guide. And what _was_ it, exactly?

Well…

If space could have something that looked vaguely like a doorway and the end of the world at the same time, that was what he was tumbling towards.

The welcome mat was green. It all made him feel weak and sick. Queasy.

And now that he thought about it, because he had nothing else to think about, really, the whole darn end of the world was green and, well, tumbling wasn't much fun.

Some of it was that he'd had a lifetime to get used to the fact that everything with him was an extreme.

Faster than a speeding bullet.

More powerful than a locomotive.

And now he just fell really fast.

Faster than—

He plunged through the doorway—static along his nerves, blood boiling, lungs stretching then shrinking, brain screaming— just as he remembered he'd already thought the part about the speeding bullet.

And the green faded to white the exact color as the ringing in his head.

* * *

Wavering lines. Fade to black.

The unsubstantial but unavoidable idea that time has passed; seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, were wedged in between scenes one and two.

He felt his eyelids flutter.

Knew everything was wrong.

And then, quite simply…

He forgot.

The ringing was just his alarm clock.

* * *

The sunrise over Metropolis was always so sudden. As if the sun loved the city so much that it rushed up high and beamed down at everyone, a smile in the sky.

Clark Kent awoke—

It had been that dream again. The wind against his face like heaven. Clouds beneath his feet.

—he put on a suit and tie, didn't worry that neither one was very good, and then stood in the full-length mirror. He'd heard himself described as 'Bland' by the women who whispered. Somehow, he always heard them.

Always.

His fingers were very steady as he straightened himself out. The tie was red and blue and it gave him pause. When he closed his eyes, there was a sea reflecting sky, or a sky littered with stars. A sickening green.

So he opened them again.

Then he just smiled a bland smile in the mirror, fixed his hair so it stayed off his face, grabbed his hat and headed to work.

And people looked up to him. Literally.

He was built like a tank and always wondered what God had been thinking because he got along with sports the way one-legged dogs get along with playing catch. Lana always said it was a shame he didn't play football and not because of his size. "Nobody ever sneaks up on you," she marveled with a shake of her pretty head. "It's like you know they're coming."

He rode the elevator and took up a fourth of it by himself. A tall girl to his left was determinedly reading the paper, arms spread wide. A headline he could only see part of read, "DERER TERRORI."

And it gave him a heated, indignant flash. Made his fists ball at his sides. Strange.

Morning routine at his desk, spilling things, knocking into things. Picture frame dented from all the times he'd dropped it.

And then the summons that made his job worthwhile. He didn't bother to fix his tie or smooth his hair: He knew it was a lost cause. But a part of him wanted to be dashing and brave. Just this once.

Lois looked lovely in the way certain poisonous flowers look lovely. His first impression of her all those years ago upon starting to work at the number one network in the whole US was that she was…

Well…

She was short.

Very, very short.

The next thing he noticed was that he was probably already in love with her from the moment she looked him up and down, asked him what tractor dragged him in, and then put him on the film crew for a reality television show.

He considered himself lucky that her presence only made him uncomfortable in a squishy kind of way these days.

"Yes, Doctor, my heart feels squishy today. I am squish."

Lois blinked slowly. "Did you say something, Smallville?"

"I said, 'Is that my new assignment?'"

Looking uncertain, Lois uncrossed her arms and slid a folder across the desk. Her fingernails were like red talons.

Which made him remember the third thing he had ever noticed about Lois:

She was ruthless. Someone once said that she had pried the keys to Perry White's office from his old, frail fingers.

As it was Perry who had said it, Clark believed the story.

"I've still got years left on me, too, Kent," he had rasped. "Years!"

"Sir, you're going to pull a tube out if you don't hold still."

"Kent, you're a stick in the mud."

"I've been told, Chief."

"Don't call me Chief! Oh, and Kent?"

"Yes…sir?"

"Take care of her, she's one of a kind."

"I'll…try."

And he _had _been trying. But she had this way of taking care of herself.

The power suit was flattering. Clark didn't know how she did that. Flattering and power suit weren't words that went together all the time. He wondered if Lois knew that austere black made her look like a sex kitten. She probably did.

"You're going to Gotham," she said.

Clark didn't school his features in time. He tried to cover it with a cough, knew she wasn't fooled, and just gave in. Yes, he sounded five. No, he didn't care.

"Do I_ have_ to?"

"Yes."

"But Gotham is so, so…"

The first thing he thought was, "Dark. NOT Metropolis." But that wasn't all of it.

So, what _was_ that city, exactly? Well, _a la_ Seuss, sometimes the best way to describe what something was, was to describe what it wasn't.

And Gotham wasn't safe or even pretty (unless you thought grim and crumbling architecture was pretty). The streets weren't orderly. They wound around themselves like those of a medieval town, as if enemies would attack at any time and the goal was to keep them away from the castle at its center by confusing the hell out of them. Gotham wasn't classy. It certainly wasn't state of the art. Its politicians weren't on the straight and narrow (so crooked they all walked with limps). Its celebrities weren't shining beacons of good behavior (drugs and prostitutes every couple of weeks and sometimes both).

What this left was…

Well.

There was a feeling about that city, like a badly tuned radio: It sent out messages and signals that were uncomfortable and ugly, but that could—maybe, just maybe—be beautiful if only someone would turn the dial. Sadly, no one had ever bothered.

Gotham was unique, but no one was sure if this was a good thing.

"Gotham," Clark tried again, staring at the filming schedule, "is the last place I want to be for this long."

Lois almost snorted a laugh. She stifled it like communist Russia stifled modern dance. Instead, she smiled her killer smile (squish, squish went his heart) and told him to get the hell out of her office and pack for his _extended _stay in Gotham.

Which is how (all of it, really: The tie, the dreams with the clouds and the flashes of green, Perry's dying wish, sharply dressed and short Lois Lane) he ended up hanging around with Matches Malone.

Now, how he ended up in that alley, panting and confused and so very horny—

How he got on the spaceship.

How he met the terrifying man in black with his hard, flat white eyes.

—all _that_ on the other hand…

Well, yes.

That all started with Matches Malone.

* * *

The Gotham Major Crimes Unit had the unfortunate problem of looking like a police station.

Just like the police stations on TV. The ones in the movies. So common it was remarkable.

There was even a chubby, slovenly cop nursing a donut and coffee by the coffee maker. Criminals like something out of the circus paraded through—orange, spiked hair; nose rings, gold chains; tattoos.

Eyes that ghosted over Clark and seemed to say, "Wanna know what I did to get here, big boy? Come a little closer and I'll show you."

It gave Clark an unparalleled feeling of faith in the law, that these guilty men and women were being locked away. Maybe a little part of him wished he could be a part of the whole process. Not possible, of course, so he just watched. He didn't quite understand the system. Not the Gotham version, anyway.

Matches Malone was one of the things he didn't quite understand because…

Okay, the guy was an idiot. Clark knew he was an idiot. A sly idiot, yes, but an idiot. As criminal as the criminals with their endless tattoos leading to places hidden beneath their, doubtless, stolen clothes.

And yet…

Around the station, there was a saying:

"If Matches said he did it, well he did it, didn't he?"

Everyone said it (he could _hear_ them when they said it), heads bowed, respectfully confused expressions on their faces. Even if they hated him, they congratulated Malone on his arrests. Shook his hand. Backed away from him when he walked through the precinct.

And the Commissioner adored him. Seemed to be waiting for him to turn water into wine.

Or maybe just Pabst Blue Ribbon into champagne.

Which had been causing Clark trouble since day one.

Oh, right.

Day one.

He remembered that first day in the Gotham Major Crimes Unit in vivid, vivid detail.

He thought about it. Wavering lines. Fade to black.

The thought made his breath hitch, _déjà vu_. He let it pass and remembered.

* * *

Day one.

Clark arranged his camera in the corner and trained it on the squinting older man. Even with glasses, his eyes were slits of questionable color. Nothing made him look awake. James Gordon was a man destined to look three cups of coffee shy no matter how he guzzled it.

That first day, his coffee cup read "World's Greatest Dad."

He took a sip, set it on his desk and then leaned back in the leather seat, looking comfortable and relaxed.

He smiled.

No, he smiled _expansively_.

"I hate that I'm being forced to tolerate you, Mr. Kent," he said, still grinning. "Can't fucking stand it."

Clark opened his mouth, closed it, and then settled on looking uncertain. When in doubt, look uncertain. It was the first thing he had learned about making a TV show from Jimmy Olsen. The first thing Lois Lane had told him was, when in doubt, make a broad, sweeping statement that can be interpreted numerous ways so that you can backpedal like a politician when it all turns out wrong.

"Well. Commissioner," he tried. "Me and the crew. And. Um. The program manager. We're just so happy you allowed us to come. So happy. So, so happy."

"I just bet you are." Now Gordon sat forward, a bit like an animal on the hunt. His teeth looked sharp. "And the mayor's pleased as punch that I'm kowtowing to your little publicity machine. He thinks it will be good for the city's image and so I've been ordered to put up with this malarkey."

Clark swallowed, tried to look even more uncertain, hoping in vain that it might help. Gordon just kept speaking in his gruff, unfriendly way.

"You see, I've _seen_ your little show, Kent. I've seen it and I don't like it. You have a bad habit of making cops look like bullies, or idiots. Or martyrs. None of these things apply to Gotham. We're not like that show you did in Star City with the cop on the take. We're not like that show you did in New York with the fat cop who sat and did nothing during a robbery."

There was a machine gun sound of knuckles cracking together. Gordon's.

"We're like nothing you've ever seen before. And to prove it to you, I'm putting you with my best cop."

He gestured to the door. Somehow, someone had entered during the exchange and Clark hadn't noticed.

That was…rare.

Turning to face the new arrival was a surprise.

He was tall, but had droopy shoulders like he was the reason shoulder pads had been invented but didn't much care. His hair looked like it had been shellacked into place. There was a high gloss, exterior grade paint-ness about the black of it. His mustache was nothing if not vaguely like a fuzzy invading army that enjoyed it so much underneath his nose that it just dug a trench and settled in for the long haul, no matter what kind of trouble it caused this man when drinking and eating. It had its own time zone.

Overall, this was the kind of man you were instinctively afraid was going to sell you a lemon. He was weak-tire-kicking, you-don't-need-a-test-drive, only-guaranteed-for-the-first-30-miles-o

r-for-30-days-whichever-comes-first, kind of scum.

But behind the glasses that had never been fashionable were eyes the color of water in vacation photos.

"Clark Kent from the Metropolis Broadcasting Station, meet Detective Matches Malone."

Malone eyed him with those Hawaii eyes for two seconds too long. Then he pulled out a long, thin cigarette and adhered it magically to his bottom lip.

"Charmed and all that," he said. And just as if someone had hit him with a bat with the word scrawled across it, Clark got a full dose of it.

JERSEY, the bat read. And it hurt. Oh, how it hurt.

The chain tangled with the hair on his chest should have been the first clue before he ever opened his mouth. The pinky ring. Clark felt like backing as far away from the man as he could, but the detective kept speaking and the horror filled the room.

"So you'll be following us around?" Malone asked.

JERSEY!

JERSEY!

JERSEY!

Clark winced.

"Yes," he said with the breath that hadn't been beaten out of his body by the worst accent in the Continental US.

"Swell," Malone said and then exchanged a mysterious single nod with the Commissioner. It was something so brief and subtle that Clark began to doubt it meant anything at all.

Yeah, day one had left him with a distinct first impression of Gotham.

A bad one, overall.

And first impressions…

Those are some lasting bitches, just like Lois always said.

* * *

Clark wasn't sure if he knew more about Gotham now.

He was really unsure if he knew more about police work or not.

But he knew a lot about Matches Malone.

He kept a running list of the oddities in his head.

On top of the list:

Matches Malone was probably jinxed. After a week filming the brash, Gotham detective, that was the only explanation that Clark could find for all the things that happened around him (and to him).

It wasn't just the fact that he never seemed to be around when a crime was happening; always showing up after the action was over ("Sorry, tripped in the stairwell"). And it wasn't just that his caseload was astronomically larger than any other detective's on the force ("Well, all these other bums have families, eh?").

It was that he never ever had a match for the cigarettes he kept in his teeth or sometimes had stuck to his lip as if with Elmer's Glue. Clark thought this was bizarre. Getting a nickname over something you never had…somehow it was like nicknaming a linebacker "Tiny."

It was also the fact that Malone was popular in the station the same way a cow dipped in manure would be if it were left to stand by the coffee machine. Chewing grass. Eight stomachs grumbling through cud.

Clark didn't quite get it. Because, well, yes, he could be a difficult bastard, but…

Malone was also good with people, in a loud, snide kind of way. He always had a good joke, never seemed to get angry, and knew every single criminal brought through the doors.

"Hey, Marty! Long time no see. What was it this time? Armed robbery?"

"Ah, hey, Matches, you old snake. Nah, they got me on a parking ticket."

"That blows."

"Tell me about it."

"Well, keep your head up. I'll look after your wife for you. Just 'till you're out."

"Aww, thanks man. You're a real…wait a minute. WHAT did you just say?"

"I just said I'll take r_eal_ good care…of your _wife_."

"You son of a bitch! If ya put one greasy finger on my Mary I'll rip yur nuts off and…!"

What made him so unpopular with his co-workers, Clark learned, was that (despite the fact that the man seemed to do nothing all day long) Matches Malone had the highest arrest record in the city. He ran circles around the other guys. Yeah, he completed his paperwork in an incomprehensible scrawl he never bothered to fix, but he got it done and his cases were airtight.

And without effort, water to wine.

One day, emboldened by one too many cups of coffee (he had to drink them like water to stay awake, to stop the violent, green dreams with the stars and the doorway that were overtaking the ones about clouds and palaces made of ice), Clark asked the gorilla of a detective, Bullock, what Malone's secret was.

"Off the record?" the man had breathed, onions and garlic hitting Clark like a punch in the face.

"Off the record," Clark answered and pressed the button on his camcorder, replaced the lens cap.

"Well, I'll tell you what some of the boys say. They say Malone really is the fuckwit he looks like. Doesn't do a lick of work just like it seems. Doesn't have a thought in that lacquered head of his."

"Then how does he solve all those cases?" Clark leaned closer, didn't mind the breath so much now because there was a secret here and he loved secrets, loved uncovering them like a dusty garage sale find, Giant Sized X-Men Number One in a box underneath chipped dishes.

"They say," and here Bullock paused, piggy eyes shifting from side to side, piggy face splitting into the closest approximation of caution that it could manage. "They say it's really his partner does all the works. Knows all the shit."

"Malone has a partner?"

Bullock shuddered, once. It made Clark think of the old wives tales about someone walking across your grave. It would be a pretty big grave for Bullock. A marching band must have just stomped across it.

"You haven't met him? Haven't heard the stories?" He was a spooked man, shoulders hunched voice quiet.

Clark shook his head, felt lost. Somewhere in this jungle of subterfuge was the answer and he needed it. Because...

Because Malone got under his skin and made him grind his teeth; pull his hair out in frustration. Was single-handedly responsible for the fact that Clark and his team didn't have even ten minutes of usable footage.

And, were he being honest, Clark would have to admit the real reason he needed to turn the page, to have the Parlor Scene: Malone was a mystery. A good one. "Red Headed League" material with a dose of "The Final Problem" thrown in for taste.

"No," he said and the excitement was in the air, the thrill of the chase. It was the feeling that had almost made him go into investigative journalism instead of television. "Who is this guy?"

Bullock's voice dropped even lower and there was a tremor of fear to it. "His name is Bruce Wayne and he's one scary son of a bitch."

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: Clark and Malone are maybe less like oil and water than Clark thought. And a few familiar faces pop in for a visit.

Words: A little over 3000

Pairings: Matches/Clark, Bruce/Clark, Sir Hemingford Gray/Clark, Dick/Bruce (sorta…). Other characters: Lois Lane, Robbie Malone, Tim Drake, Jim Gordon, Montoya, Bullock.

Warnings: AU. Language, violence, identity nuttiness. I don't even have a beta so read at your own risk. Smut on the way.

Spoilers: Nothing really...kind of a funny hint about someone's identity or two.

Rating: R

* * *

Day Ten

Despite the appearance of the man, upon meeting Matches Malone, Clark had had high hopes. After all, in a city with a famous police force, the best of them all was going to be something special. That's what he'd thought, at least.

And then Malone proceeded to do absolutely nothing. For two weeks.

Clark amended his thoughts. He DID do something.

And what that something was, was turn up late to work every single day, slow walking and listless until his third cup of toxically strong coffee. Once he was awake and alert, he got down to the business of being uncooperative.

"You can't film this," was his favorite saying. Next in line was, "Get that fucking camera out of my fucking face, you fucker." It was clear that Jimmy, Clark's cameraman, was more than a little intimidated by Malone. The detective was a big guy, and surly (when he wasn't being a comedian), so Clark understood his feeling. And with restless sleep making waking every day as difficult as digging a hole with a spaghetti noodle (those green, painful dreams just kept coming night after night and his tiny, crappy motel bed wasn't helping) Malone's attitude was threatening to be the proverbial straw. Clark hadn't gone postal yet, and he had to assume that God was on his side, raining patience down on him like, well, rain.

Because Gotham was wet. Wet and dreary. All Clark wanted was one sunny day. Seasonal Depression was something he'd been living with for a long time. Having it at full blast when his job was on the line just seemed like bad luck. He'd been desperate enough to consider going to a tanning salon but knew he'd never fit on one of the beds. He preferred to think of them as too small instead of himself as too big. It was better for his ego.

And ego brought him back around to the problem: Matches Malone. After yet another affront ("Hey, Mr. Metropolis, get your goddamn cameraman out of my face or I'm going to introduce his ass to his tripod…"), Clark talked himself into talking to someone about the trouble.

"Commissioner," he said. He squirmed a bit in the too-small chair. "Our filming schedule's thrown out of whack, my crew is starting to complain, and we don't have a single bit of usable footage. Could you assign me to follow someone a little less…him?"

It had become apparent to Clark that there was a causal relationship between his own unhappiness and Gordon's leopard on the prowl smile.

"Sorry, Ken, but you're stuck with him." Clark's shoulders drooped, Gordon's smile widened. Hypothesis failed to be proven false.

"It's 'Kent,' Commissioner."

"Yeah. That too."

"I just thought—" Clark tried only to stop when Gordon lifted his coffee cup to his lips.

Gone was "World's Greatest Dad."

This cup read: "Fuck you," and the part of Clark that wasn't offended wondered where one got something like that made.

Gordon took a long, slow sip, narrow eyes formed into evil shapes over his coffee cup.

Clark got the idea and left.

* * *

Malone was guzzling coffee by the coffee machine when Clark found him a few hours later. Jimmy and the crew were out taking shots of the city. They always made for good filler and everyone seemed anxious to get out of the building (read: away from Malone).

With his mind made up, he stood next to Malone, mirrored his posture with his back against the counter, and cleared his throat.

"So," Clark began, "I wanted to talk to you."

"I figured. Shoot."

Clark took a breath of courage. Fear of Lois' disappointment, of red anger slipping up her neck from beneath her power suit, spurred him on. "It's just…I think we got off to a bad start. I know you and the Commissioner don't necessarily want me here, but I'm just doing my job. Honestly, my crew and I, we're not trying to step on any toes. We just want to get in, get enough good footage for 45 minutes of show so that we can stick some commercials in between, make it a solid hour of quality TV, and then go back to Metropolis."

It was, Clark realized, the most he'd spoken to Malone since meeting him. More than that, it was the most he'd spoken to anyone in as long as he could remember. Clark had the sudden understanding of his own manner with people. How long had he been silently zombie-walking his way through life? When had he stopped having an opinion, an ounce of pride?

Malone turned his attention to Clark, heavy jaw working as he swallowed, clenched his teeth. Clark suddenly wondered what he looked like without the mustache.

"Did you just politely tell me to back the fuck off and cooperate?"

Clark winced at the wording, then felt his face settle. He wasn't sure what extra gonad made him answer with, "Yes. Yes, I think that's what I just said."

Malone took a sip of his coffee and kept his gaze steady on Clark. He swallowed heavily. Suddenly, he barked a short, dry laugh. Then he was clapping Clark on the shoulder hard. "Ha! I like you, Kent. You're all right."

He dumped the rest of the coffee down the stained sink, looked at his gaudy watch. "Okay, we're rolling out in ten minutes. Be ready by then or I'm leaving you and your dorky cameraman behind. What is it with the bowtie, anyway?"

Clark looked at the monstrosity of a suit that Malone was wearing, the color of a radioactive lime, and just shrugged. "There's no accounting for taste," he said at last.

* * *

When he ended up riding shotgun next to Malone in one of those stealth police cars (the kind that don't look like cop cars until it's too late and you have a speeding ticket you can't afford), as he liked to call them, Clark had been a little surprised.

"We can have a chat on the way," Malone had explained and even held the door for him.

So…

To go from zero to 60 with the detective after one brief chat by the coffee machine seemed a little unreal.

And speaking of zero to 60…

Clark was damn intrigued how a police officer, even a purported genius detective, could afford an Aston Martin. It had all the cop equipment: A radio, a laptop, sirens and more. But at the end of the day, it was a luxury car with a V8. It moved like it ran on rails.

When Malone turned on the sirens and started blaring through red lights, surprise turned to abject fear. There was a burbling stream of cop talk coming over the radio, but none of this lingo made a lick of sense to Clark. He'd been forced to deal with police officers for years now because of the show and he had no idea what a "Whippy Dingo" meant in police terms.

Worse, he had no idea what a "Whippy Dingo in progress at Second and Didio" meant AT ALL. Whatever it was, it was important enough for Malone to pick up speed and commit at least ten moving violations. The camera crew had taken the van and followed behind, but there was no way they'd ever catch up

The Aston Martin purred and Malone's smile could have put the sun to shame. Clark took that as encouragement to ask a question. It had been the detective's idea that they talk, after all. It was his own fault that he hadn't figured out that it was a lot easier for Clark to deal with people with a camera lens sandwiched between them and him. His camcorder in hand, he aimed it at Malone. The grainy image rattled on the screen as the car hit warp drive speeds.

"So, how do you like your job?"

"Just fine," Malone answered. When Clark only waited for him to elaborate, Malone looked flustered for the first time Clark had ever seen. "Um…it's a good job. Action, you know? I get to catch the bad guys. And there's pussy. I mean…women spread their legs for a guy with a badge."

Clark coughed. Malone just pressed on.

"I've seen how some of the guys on your show get all emotional about the stress of the job. I just don't get it. I mean, what the fuck did you sign up for? Protect and serve, right? And sometimes that means getting your hands dirty. Why are you whining? That's what I want to know. It's just retarded."

Clark cleared his throat this time. "You can't use that word on the air."

"What, whining?"

"No, the…the other one."

"Retarded?"

"Yeah. That one. You can't say that word."

"I can't? Man, that's fucking gay."

Clark opened his mouth, felt the words trying to come out. His teeth clacked together as he shut up. He just sighed and rubbed his forehead. Then he turned the camera off. Silence was best, he decided. Gotham was a streak outside the window, blurring by so quickly he felt he missed more than he saw. Pawn shop, liquor store, deli, church, liquor store, empty lot, car lot, pawn show, streak, streak, zoom.

Just as Clark was starting to enjoy the ride, to feel like maybe what he had thought was fear was truly exhilaration, like coming home after a long time, Malone screeched the car to a halt on a wide street lined with older government offices and buildings. There were hotdog vendors on the street and bus stops on every block. Horns blared from hidden places in the distance. There were hustlers and working ladies and they all scrambled to get away as Malone slid from the sleek, black panther of a car.

Clark stumbled out of the car after him, amazed as Malone (who didn't look so fast, especially not in that suit), put on a burst of speed and targeted a dark-haired youth with wild hair and eyes as blue as Matches'. The young man had been in the thick of it all, hands out, swapping…something, with the others.

He was dressed like an urban fashion model with artfully distressed jeans and a tight-fitting black and blue shirt. A curling design in shining grey covered his heart. Maybe it was wings or feathers. Clark couldn't see it so well because Malone got his big hand around the kid's wrist, took a heavy step back with his right leg to get momentum, and then swung the kid around hard so that he landed on the hood of the Aston Martin.

"Robbie, Robbie, Robbie," Malone said, clicking his tongue. He leaned down over the kid—way down low—and spoke into his ear. "What are we up to, today? I think someone was supposed to be in court an hour ago."

The kid squirmed and Malone just pushed in closer, curving his chest around Robbie's back and pressing his knees into the back of Robbie's. It was…

Clark swallowed, shifted.

It was definitely no way to handle a suspect that Clark had ever seen.

"Gerroff, Malone," Robbie said breathlessly. "I rescheduled. Something like that."

There was a hint of Jersey in the voice, but nothing as bad as what Malone called English.

"Rescheduled? And you didn't tell your old pal Matches?"

When Robbie lifted his head to send a glare over his shoulder, Clark got the first close look at his face. Robbie was no standard looking guy: He was startlingly handsome, with a glint in those blue eyes that hinted at secrets, really good secrets. "You're not on the V.I.P. list. You should make an appointment if you want to see me."

Impossibly, Malone pushed their bodies closer. "Appointments aren't my style. So I guess it's a good thing you cleared your schedule: I need to talk to you."

"Talk, eh?" Robbie breathed and Clark wasn't sure if he imagined the way the kid's hips pushed back.

"Yeah," Malone hissed in his ear. "Talk."

As quickly as he'd been pushed on the hood of the car, Robbie was whipped back around, his arm still twisted in what looked like a painful configuration behind his back. He half tiptoed, half limped to the alley as Malone steered him by his shoulder and twisted arm.

"I've got rights, ya know!" Robbie cried.

"Yeah, sure you do. I've got your rights right here," Malone sneered back. At the entrance to the alley, Malone paused, seemed to remember Clark, and looked over his shoulder. "I'll be back in a jiff," he said a little too quickly, like he was in a hurry. "You just sit tight and don't get yourself into any trouble."

"But—" Clark tried, taking a step forward.

"Uh-uh," Malone scolded. "Wait right there, Kent. Just wait. No peeking."

So Clark waited. And waited. Some of the rough looking kids from before came back around, eyed the car.

"Nice ride," one of them said, stepping forward boldly. He was another dark-haired kid, just a little taller and stockier than Robbie. He looked a little rougher, too; not as pretty, certainly someone who fought dirty. Still, he was a good-looking kid and Clark wondered what circumstances had put him on the street, hanging out on the corner up to God-knows-what. He wore a red, hooded sweater and kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"I know," Clark sighed. "But I'm just shotgun."

The kid rolled his shoulders in an easy, mammalian motion. "Yeah, we saw. You with that cop?"

"Um…Yeah."

"He being nice to you?"

Clark looked down and mumbled, "Sorta."

"You his new boy?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, you're kinda cute so maybe…?"

"No!" Clark blurted so quickly he choked. Some of the kids behind Hoodie laughed. They got quiet again quickly when Hoodie hit them with a cold, squinting glare. Heart swallowed back down but lodged oddly, Clark tried to explain. "No. I'm following him around for a show. I'm…I'm filming a TV show. I do production work."

The kids looked skeptical. "Then where's your camera?" Hoodie asked.

Clark showed the small, high-tech camcorder to the kids. Some of them clustered closer. He flipped it into its different configurations, showed them how the screen worked, and even let Hoodie hold it. He played with it for a moment, deft, square-tipped fingers confident over the controls, and then handed it back.

He whistled. "Man. Nice. How much does that even cost?"

"I don't know. The station paid for it," Clark admitted. "A lot, I guess. I broke one once. It got trashed during a shootout that broke out during filming. They take it out of my paycheck in installments."

"You get shot at and they make you pay for it? That's harsh."

And now that Clark thought about it, yeah, it was pretty harsh. The kid seemed to be watching the thoughts go through Clark's head. The other youths on the street stayed close during the exchange, but obviously let this one run the show. No one else spoke or interrupted.

"It's a little harsh," Clark agreed. "Maybe."

"You put up with shit like that all the time?" he asked Clark.

Clark blinked. He blinked again, thinking, and suddenly there were a thousand moments of him bending over and taking it like a spineless coward for him to peruse, preserved in perfect detail. His ugly suit pants and old shirt suddenly felt heavy and uncomfortable. His slicked-back hair made him twitchy. "I…I guess I don't like conflict."

The kid took a step closer to him, ran his eyes up and down his body with a thoughtful expression on his sharp face. "You know, a guy I trust told me that sometimes, you have to fight back. And sometimes, you have to fight dirty. He's a smart guy; knows what he's talking about. Ain't you tired of getting stepped on?"

"Maybe," Clark said at first. The disbelief the kid sent his way made him answer truthfully. "I hadn't really thought about it before today. It's been a strange day, I guess, because I keep thinking about it more and more. And…yes, I guess I am tired of being a doormat."

"Good for you," the kid said, nodding. "Get tired enough, and you'll do something about it."

"Ahem," they both heard.

Smoothly, the kid turned on his heels to stare at Matches and Robbie emerging from the alley. Unbelievably, Robbie was wiping at the corners of his lips. They looked red and swollen. His pupils were blown and his cheeks robin red. Matches was tugging at his pants. He had a smile on his face that said he was more than just the cat that ate the cream: He was the cat that owned its own ice cream shop.

Clark's jaw dropped. The kid in the red hoodie raised a thin eyebrow and leered.

"D-did..." Clark tried, finger raised in accusation, and then stopped. How was he going to finish that sentence: "Did you just get a blowjob from a criminal of questionable age in an alley while on the clock?"

No, that was never going to work.

"You're not bothering Mr. Kent, are you, Jason?" Malone asked as he dropped a heavy, hairy-knuckled hand onto Hoodie's shoulder.

Jason. His name was Jason and Clark found it fitting. It had just the right ring to it.

"Nah, me and Mr. Kent were just chatting. He's a good guy."

Matches' eyes caught with Clark's, held them. "Is he?"

"Yeah," Jason said. He moved to stand next to Robbie who put a brotherly arm around his shoulder. "You shouldn't be so hard on him."

Malone was about to speak when Robbie interrupted with, "Me, however, you can be as hard on as you like."

Clark thought he might faint. He staggered into the car instead. Malone just grunted. "Thanks for the talk, Robbie."

"Anytime," Robbie said with a wicked smile on his face. He made a deliberate path around his mouth with his too-pink tongue. Malone watched the motion, snorted a laugh, and then strutted to the driver's side door. "Jason, keep your nose clean."

He dropped down into the car, shut the door too hard, and took off without buckling up. The tires left tread marks down the road and the smell of burnt rubber lingered for minutes after.

"Like that'll happen," Jason muttered under his breath, but Clark heard. Heard the way his sneakers scuffed on the sidewalk, how Robbie's fingers sounded as they ruffled his hair.

Strangely, he even heard Jason say as they ran a red light two blocks away, "Mr. Kent really is a good guy, Rob. Damn shame he doesn't know it."

Stranger still was hearing Robbie reply with, "Let's hope Bruce goes easy on him, then."

Through the spotless windshield of the Aston Martin, Clark watched the sun come out. He wondered if that was why he felt better, or if it had to do with knowing that someone, somewhere, believed in him.

Five minutes later, the camera crew pulled up in their van, agitated and a little terrified. Gotham traffic really was nothing to laugh at.

"W-where? Where did Detective Malone go?" Jimmy asked the kid in the hoodie he found standing on the corner as if he didn't need to go to school like other kids.

"Malone?" the kid answered slowly. "You just missed him." He cocked his head to the side. "Can I see your camera?"

To Be Continued…


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Before a Live Studio Audience (Transcripts from an unaired episode of 'US Cops'), Part 3

Author: Harmless One

Summary: A scratched up body in the river is the least of Clark's worries. How's he going to tell his boss that the detective he's following is probably a liar and a crook? The suits alone should get him jail time…

Words: Almost 4000 for this chapter.

Pairings: Matches/Clark, Bruce/Clark, Sir Hemingford Gray/Clark, Dick/Bruce (sorta…). Other characters: Lois Lane, Robbie Malone, Tim Drake, Jim Gordon, Montoya, Bullock.

Warnings: AU. Language, violence, identity nuttiness. I don't even have a beta so read at your own risk. Smut on the way.

Spoilers: Nothing really, but some of the ideas from 52 are in play here. Welcome to one of many Earths.

Rating: R

:

Day Eleven

He was valiantly not thinking about Malone pushed up against a wall with the pretty hustler Robbie kneeling between his thighs. He'd been not thinking about it all morning with the grass beneath him and the wind whipping around him. In fact, he'd been trying so hard not to think about what he saw yesterday (like hopeful, rough-and-tumble Jason) that he'd been avoiding calling Lois.

He knew she was going to have his head when he failed to give her a play-by-play on the filming. He just couldn't make himself call her, tell her that the guy he was shadowing was a criminal with a badge and an over-sexed one with questionable morals at that. And, yes, there were good things about Malone. Clark knew that, had even seen them peek through like that damn groundhog.

They just hid very well. Regardless of the length of winter.

"This your hobby or something? Sitting outside, soaking up sunshine like…I dunno. A fern?"

Clark got the idea. As a journalist, he knew mixed metaphors were supposed to bother him. On Malone, it was kind or charming. The early-spring sunshine just made it all the more so.

He gave Malone a smile because they really had been getting along better since the chat at the coffee machine. Blowjob in the alley aside, things were working out relatively well between them. Even Jimmy wasn't as afraid of Malone anymore.

"Well. I'm a farmboy. Born and raised in Kansas."

"No shit! Who'd have thunk it?" Malone said, staring off into the distance.

"You're being sarcastic."

"Give the boy a fucking medal. Yeah, I'm being sarcastic. You sound like you eat hay for breakfast and have a dog named Lassie or something. You've got Kansas stamped on you so bad I wouldn't be surprised if you pissed sunflower seeds."

Clark sighed inwardly and continued gazing up. Gazing up at the dyed blue silk sky—like blue jeans and swimming pools. Looking up, up, and—

"—away." Malone finished with a laugh.

"Whuh?" Clark said, squinting. He hadn't heard a thing. It got like this for him sometimes: He could sit out in the sun and instantly feel better. Today was no different. He'd been about ready to collapse from frustration and exhaustion not ten minutes ago. A little sunlight later and he was worth much more than a million bucks.

"I said, 'You on another planet, Kent? You seem a little far away.'"

"Oh, no," Clark said and found himself again charmed that Malone would care to notice his daydreaming. "I like sunshine. It makes me feel," more like myself, he didn't say. "Better," he concluded at last. "So I just…relax, zone out."

"Relax, huh?" Malone asked. Today, Malone was in mustard yellow with a tie the color of cranberry juice. His blue eyes were obscured by aviator glasses too large for his square face. Clark wondered if those eyes were trained on him, or somewhere vaguely to his left. He wondered if Malone had ever looked at him seriously, as anything more than just a nuisance that the ambitious mayor of Gotham had forced onto him. "I don't think I've ever seen you relaxed, Hayseed. I think it'd be worth the cost of admission, though."

Was that a leer?

Clark didn't know what the words meant, exactly, and was afraid to ask. And maybe the sunglasses DID hide a leer. So he smiled his blandest smile and tried to look vague. Malone harrumphed and pushed his shades up his nose. Oddly, in full sunshine at a park across from the MCU, the detective still wasn't smoking. Clark zeroed in on the small piece of pink gum being battered by Malone's too large, even, and sparkly white teeth. Catching his gaze, Malone shrugged.

"Trying to quit."

And Clark thought…

Well, Clark thought how odd it was that Malone never ever smelled like tobacco. Had NEVER smelled like tobacco.

"How's it coming?" Clark asked.

"Fucking awful." Malone squinted up (maybe, or maybe he just tilted his head back in thought). "You know how sometimes at Christmas your mom and dad don't fight when your dad's putting up the tree and nobody gets shot down in a parking lot, like, the day before, like an uncle or something, and then you get exactly what you want and maybe get laid by a big tittied girl from upstate and nobody gets so drunk that they puke on the lawn and try to take a swing at you? You know how that can happen like that sometimes?"

"Um…yes…?"

Malone nodded. "Quitting is exactly like the opposite of that."

"Oh," Clark said. "I'm sorry."

Malone looked at Clark like he smelled something wafting off of him that could kill livestock. "Why are you apologizing? You don't have any reason to say that." Malone suddenly narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. "Unless Clark Kent is some act you play and your name's really Tommy Elliot and you're secretly the fucker who put that cigarette in my hand when I was five and said, 'Hey, Malone, give it a puff, everybody else is doing it, why don't you give it a try? Come on, it'll be cool.' Unless you're really him, don't apologize to me. You apologize too much."

"Uh," Clark said, sagely. "Right."

Malone continued to stare down at him. An awkward, excruciating moment passed this way. Matches smacked his gum; Clark stared at him. Matches' hair glistened like motor oil in the sun. Clark stared at that, swallowed nervously.

After he felt as if he had counted every thick hair on Malone's head, Clark cleared his throat. "So…um…Did you want something?"

"Yep."

Clark felt like he needed a pair of pliers to smooth this conversation. "What is it?"

"You."

A spike of something hot and tangy pierced his body, settled down low. "Excuse me?" Clark gasped. He wanted to tug on his collar. Wanted to shift to the left a little, move things around into a better configuration. It was all so bizarre that he wanted to floss his brain clean. One big piece of string, right through the ears.

"We've got a live one," Malone said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. "Or…not really 'live,' if you know what I mean."

To Clark it sounded something like, "Er…not reelly 'laive' if'ya know whuddimean."

He wrapped his mind around it eventually. "You found a body?"

"Got it in one." (Gaat it n'won).

"So…you came to get me. You mean you want me to follow you. Back to the station. So we can film. Not that you…well, ha, ha, of course you didn't mean that!"

Malone's thick eyebrow finally appeared from behind his shades. "You on something?" (You aan summin?)

"No," Clark said soberly. "No. I'll just…get my crew. And we'll get in our van. And we can go."

Malone nodded and then turned to cross the street back to the station. He paused once to stare over his shoulder speculatively at Clark who ignored it all by counting the blades of grass by his feet. They were just fascinating at the moment.

:

With only two other crewmen allowed on the scene for fear of contamination, Clark was at a filming disadvantage. He trusted his cameraman, Jimmy, and his sound tech, Chuck, but he missed the rest of the guys. They could have really helped him out with this awkward, river shooting. The water was muddy, unattractive regardless of the angle. Industrial buildings drooped along the horizon, miserable and grey. Gotham's downtown was a shiny postcard in the distance—close, but not so close that the posh shopping districts and artsy coffee houses had to fight with the smog from the laboring factories. Wedged in between the two vastly different worlds were the dinosaur shapes of cranes and wrecking balls; the rumble, rumble of bulldozers; the ceaseless ratchet, crumble, slam, ratchet, headache noise of the jackhammers.

She was seaweed wet and colored oddly. Her head was turned to the side, body loose and bloated. She'd been a girl once, Clark thought. Alive and maybe not happy, but with the chance to try for it. Now she was just a body in a muddy river. Now her arms were extended before her torso, the skin they could see peeking out of the water white and bruised. The shirt she wore was bleached by age and sunlight and ripped in numerous places. She bobbed in the water like a boat.

"Are we allowed…that is…" Clark winced at what was being towed closer to the shore by the Gotham City Underwater Patrol Recovery Team. "Can we film this?"

Gordon stepped into his peripheral vision, cigar clenched tightly in his teeth. "The Mayor didn't say you couldn't. It's a little gruesome for a soft, Metropolis guy like you." He cast a disdainful look at Clark's elegantly buffed nails. They looked like they'd never been dirty in his life—like maybe they couldn't even get dirty. "Have your editors make it palatable. Have them snip it nice and pretty so nobody knows how ugly life can really be."

Clark had no idea what to say to that, but part of him felt like Gordon was being unfair. Men and women who worked hard everyday, came home to their kids and their mortgage payments…maybe they didn't need to see how ugly life could be. Wasn't it best for someone to protect them from the worst the world could throw?

Matches stood on the bank, mud-smeared grass smashed at his feet. His fingers twitched. "Need a fucking smoke," he said and then rubbed his hands together. Behind his shades, he could have been squinting, staring at the inside of his own eyelids, or wide-eyed and no one would have known. "Bullock!"

The whale of a detective still managed to strut, sixty pounds hindered of healthy. "Detective?" he said. He was already flipping open a small notebook, leaving graphite smudges on his thumb.

"How'd we end up here today?"

Bullock wiped the sweat from his eyes and dropped his eyes to the notebook. "Got a call just after noon. Guy in a fishing boat—Robert Gentry—said something thudded against the bottom of his boat, left a dent. He thought it was a log, but his kid said he saw an…an Inferi?"

Malone raised an eyebrow. "What the fuck is an Inferi?"

Gordon and Clark chuckled simultaneously earning twin looks of "Well?" from Bullock and Malone.

Gordon yanked his cigar out of his mouth just in time to cough a laugh. "Harry Potter," he said. "Creepy undead bodies in the water."

"Book Six," Clark added to clarify.

Bullock frowned, looked down and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Malone's lip made an interesting twist. "Harry fucking Potter? Commissioner, say it ain't so."

Gordon threw his hands up in surrender. "What? I've got kids."

Malone's sweeping gaze fell on Clark. "What's your excuse, Hayseed?"

Clark gave a weak laugh that he must have thought would divert attention. When the detectives and the commissioner continued to stare at him, he just shrugged. "They're really good," he said lamely. (I keep them on a special shelf, have two sets (one to read and one nobody is allowed to touch), (oh, and I test into Hufflepuff), he didn't say). "So…the boat…?"

He tried not to notice that Gordon was looking at him like maybe he was human after all. Bonding over Harry Potter with a hardened Police Commissioner was something he couldn't explain to Lois. He moved closer to Jimmy. To have an excuse for what was, essentially, cowardly fleeing, he instructed Jimmy on what to shoot, what might look best. Maybe he imagined Gordon's bereft visage. I've got kids, indeed, Clark thought.

Bullock shook his head like a wet dog. "Anyway. Yeah. Instead of freaking his kid out by going back to check, he called us. We got a team out here as soon as possible—not easy with the construction down here…beautify Gotham…who the hell cares?" He cleared his throat, a wet, sickly sound. "And here we are. Currents pushed her down this way. Gentry says he saw her about four miles that way." He jerked his thumb and then flipped a page in his notebook.

"We figure she surfaced this morning."

"Maybe," Malone said. He crossed his arms, mustard suit tugging at his shoulders. The divers had finally reached the shore and were carefully moving the body onto a large piece of plastic. She squished down sloppily and her bloat seemed to roll under the dripping clothes. The tight fitting shirt she wore had rolled up under the strain of he skin's stretch. She'd been young, and maybe pretty once, but the skin of her nose and lips had been nibbled away; cartilage and bone peeked through. Her face, upper arms and belly were almost flesh colored, all the blood having pooled there while she bobbed facedown in the murky water.

"Some of the scratches on her back, they from boats?" Bullock asked, rocking back on his heels.

"Maybe," Malone answered.

"Cause if they ain't, then we've got a serial k—"

"Thank you, Detective," Malone interrupted. "I think I know my job."

Clark listened to the exchange, intrigued. "Don't linger on the body too much," he whispered to Jimmy. "Sweep the shore, show the detectives."

The knowing look Gordon sent his way made his back stiffen.

:

Back at the MCU with Malone, Clark hid behind his notebook and asked questions. Malone had refused to be filmed today. "Not in the fucking mood," he'd said (and so much for the cooperation of the day before). Then he'd settled down at his cluttered desk and gestured for Clark to 'Park it' across the way, at a fastidiously neat and tidy desk. The plaque on the desk said "Bruce Wayne." Clark had never wanted to ask about something so much in his life. About someone. The idea of the ticking clock on his filming schedule made him press on. As long as Matches Malone was cooperating, he knew he had to take advantage of it.

"The autopsy, will it tell us how she died? Did she drown?"

"The autopsy won't really tell us shit," Malone admitted. He leaned back extremely in his chair, long legs crossed at the ankle and propped on the edge of his desk. "With bodies retrieved from water, they never really do. She could have been in the water for a three weeks or a month and a half. And those wounds…they could have happened before or after she took a long swim. The lungs fill with water alive or dead so, who knows? The current and the conditions on the bottom of the river, they could have banged her up, too. For all I know, she got drunk and fell in."

Clark swallowed. "But what if she didn't? What if she was murdered and then dumped?"

Malone squinted at him, his ugly glasses back, still dulling the intensity of his eyes, but only just barely. Hawaii, Clark thought again. It was almost surreal having the full intensity of an entire state's blueness directed at him, the culmination of a million vacations in the sun.

"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Clark frowned. "Um…I think we've already come to it. They don't call you for just any random thing. Why would a SENIOR detective be required for a regular drowning? Bullock could have handled that."

Malone shifted, one hip out, arms crossed. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you, Kent?"

Clark felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. "I've been told I'm pretty smart."

"Then I'll answer that…" and Malone hesitated, something he never, ever did. Intrigued didn't even begin to describe what Clark felt. Malone began again, slowly. "When any body of a young girl surfaces in the water, either me, or my partner, will be called immediately."

"Why?" Clark asked but he wanted to say, "Tell me about this partner, now!"

"Because we're the best."

Clark was chasing it, felt almost as if Malone wanted him to chase it. "Why do they need the best on this?"

Malone's lips parted...and….

"Malone!" a voice shouted. Clark looked up to see the pretty Chief, Montoya (she had a first name, had told him not to use it. Ever), standing in the doorway.

"What's up, Chief?"

"Hospital called. They're ready for you to come and have a look at that floater." She cast a quick glance at Kent. "Is he coming, too?"

Malone pulled a face that might as well have said, "Fuck if I know." He shook his head. "Maybe not a good idea. I mean…you think you can stomach this, Kent?"

Clark swallowed. Tapped his pencil. "If I'm allowed to film, I want to be there."

"Allowed? Ha. Well, Mayor Hunt wants to give you carte blanche. Nothing's off limits to your network, it seems," Malone said with a gravely voice, the Jersey subdued. There was something in his tone that made the hair stand up at the back of Clark's neck. He found the somewhat sleepy, end-of-the-day drag fall away, leaving him alert and on-edge. "You wanna be there, you can be there. I can't go against the mayor," Malone added.

Montoya looked resigned. "Then I'll ask the Commissh," she said and disappeared as quickly as she'd come.

When Clark turned back to Malone, he found himself once again pinned by those eyes. He could almost forget what a despicable man he was looking into them.

"So…" Clark tried. "Do we go? Now?" This, he realized, was how he talked to Lois: Like she was some exotic, incomprehensible creature so far above him that the most he could do was put a sentence together and know it was in English.

"We go," Malone intoned mockingly. "Now."

Clark swallowed back some of the snappier retorts he had flying around his head like those damn monkeys from that damn movie.

They worked their way through the building, down to the parking garage. Clark looked to the place where Malone had parked the day before after visiting with Robbie and Jason. There was a Lamborghini the color of sin where the luxury car had been. Thinking maybe he had been blinded by the yellow of Malone's suit (Colonel Mustard, in the Major Crimes Unit, with the Jersey Accent Bat ™), Clark did a 360.

"Uh…where's the Aston Martin?" he asked after the second spin 'round. He'd been excited by the chance to settle heavy and lazy into those seats again; to feel that speed; to hear the purr of the engine. Sure, Malone drove the thing like he thought it was a tank, but nothing killed the beauty of that beast.

The detective fumbled over a new piece of gum, shoved it in his mouth. "What Aston Martin?" he asked. His tone of voice was sincerely confused.

"Y-you drove an Aston Martin yesterday."

"Oh, yeah? What color was it?"

"Black!" Clark shouted. Exasperation made him feel like a soccer mom trying and failing to make it past the Dairy Queen with a car full of kids.

"This one's black," Malone said easily. He even crossed his arms and Clark wondered why he suddenly felt proprietary about that gesture, as if he was the only one allowed to make it.

Strange.

"But it's not the same car!"

Malone raised a bushy brow at him. "You sure? Maybe you were mistaken. You know tractors. You don't know cars."

Clark huffed, felt heat slide up his collar. "These cars," he said slowly, "are the kind of cars," he added after a breath, "that blind people could identify," he finished, knowing his face was turning red with suppressed anger.

"Blind people? Huh. Not exactly Politically Correct of you, is it, Mr. You-Can't-Say-Retarded-on-the-Air?"

"You can't!"

"Whoa! This is priceless: Mr. Pot, meet Mr. Kettle!" Malone exclaimed, arms waving wildly and forming blinding streaks of toxic sunshine in the air around them.

"Look, I'm trying to make a point here," Clark managed at last.

"And what point might that be, Mr. Big City Network Man?"

Clark floundered. What WAS he trying to say? "I'm saying, 'Okay, fine. I get it.' I DO get it! And it's all okay with me. Whatever you get up to when you're not doing your job, fine."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Malone asked in a whisper as he stalked away from Clark with his lupine walk, digging the keys out of his pocket.

"I guess I'm just asking: Where did you get the car, Malone?"

At the door of the (stolen, fenced, gifted by the mafia?) beautiful sports car, Malone turned to Clark, mustache somewhat sinister above his generous mouth. "Enterprise Rent-A-Car. They even came and picked me up."

"Stop lying to me. What are you involved in that you can afford to drive two, very expensive cars? Are you…" Clark flailed, trying to find the right words. "Are you the dirtiest cop in the city, or what?"

Malone wiped his thumb under his nose with the deliberate menace of a boxer. "I ain't dirty."

Instead of contradicting Malone with words, Clark pushed his slick hair off his face with one hand (one lock had fallen into his face, what with all this anger and shaking and such), and waved at the car with the other as if to say, "Hello!? Am I the only one seeing this?"

"There is an explanation for all of this," Malone said, suddenly serious. "Believe me. Just trust me."

And Clark felt a window open. He looked up and Malone's eyes (those damn, troublesome eyes) were imploring him. To ask? To let all his suspicions go? To…to WHAT?

Clark didn't know.

And so he let the moment pass.

A heartbeat later—the span of time it takes for worlds to die and be reborn—and Malone was all carnival barker smiles and guffaws again.

"You crack me up, Kent. You're such a fucking stick in the mud."

Clark sighed. "So I've been told."

Many, many, times. Countless times. Lifetimes worth of times.

He slid into the firm seat of the Lamborghini, smelled the new-car smell and felt another headache starting. He knew he needed to sleep better. Those nauseating green dreams plus the insanity of his job were working in cahoots to drive him nuts. He slumped: Exhaustion had suddenly hit him like a locomotive.

Maybe even more powerful than that.

Malone settled next to him.

"Let's go see the dead girl," he said, tasteless as always.

Clark only nodded and started to think about the weekend. He had just decided that he needed a day off. At least a day away from Malone and Gordon and Robbie and bloody Gotham City.

To be continued…


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Before a Live Studio Audience (Transcripts from an unaired episode of 'US Cops'), Part 4

Author: Harmless One

Summary: The autopsy leads to some unexpected visitors while Clark has to deal with the problem of being able to hear a pin drop. In Zimbabwe.

Words: About 4000 for this chapter.

Pairings: Matches/Clark, Bruce/Clark, Sir Hemingford Gray/Clark, Dick/Bruce (sorta…). Other characters: Lois Lane, Robbie Malone, Tim Drake, Jim Gordon, Montoya, Bullock.

Warnings: AU. Language, violence, identity nuttiness. I think you all know I don't have a beta and this chapter is really in need of love it's not going to get. Score!

Spoilers: Nothing really, but some of the ideas from 52 are in play here. Welcome to one of many Earths.

Rating: R

:

Day Eleven

Still

It was just going to be Clark. And Malone.

The call came through as (questionably) Malone's Lamborghini took a wild left turn onto a busy street.

"Yeesh!" Clark said as his shoulder crashed into the door. He meant to sound fearful, but there was a strange glee to his voice.

"Malone," Malone said into the cell phone. Which he answered. While speeding down a crowded street. Thereby proving to Clark that he really was the worst person in the whole wide world.

"Yeah, I know who I called," Gordon said, loud enough for Clark to hear it even though the slim cell phone was sandwiched between Malone's ear and his meaty hand.

"Oh. What do you want?" ("Whaddyawaant?")

"Just talked to Montoya about the filming. Show the dead girl some damn respect," Gordon demanded. "Make sure Keith films it tastefully. And tell him I don't want a damn circus. He can film with that fancy little camera of his, but all the rest of his guys had better stay back."

Malone pulled the phone away from his mouth and took his eyes off the road to look at Clark. "Hey, Kansas. The Commissioner wants for you to call off your guys," he stage-whispered.

Clark almost snapped, 'I heard him. People in Zimbabwe heard him," but he didn't want to upset Malone and make him drive more recklessly (read: like a nearsighted, one-legged wombat on speed).

"Fine," Clark said. He flipped open his cell and placed the call. When Jimmy answered his phone, he was alternately cursing and screaming about Gotham traffic and didn't seem to mind being sent back to the motel where it was safe from the most dangerous aspect of Gotham (read: Gotham drivers).

"Aye, aye," Malone said, finishing his call to Gordon. The phone he slid back into the breast pocket of his ugly suit. He was wearing the expression Clark was beginning to consider, 'The look of the nicotine-deprived.' Malone without a cigar was…

Well, it was like Malone without a cigar.

"My name," Clark said under his breath, "is Kent. Not 'Keith.' Kent." Gordon wasn't on the line anymore and Clark knew he was being petty, but it did make him feel a little better.

The article he couldn't read clearly today came from a folded up newspaper on the front desk at the hospital. "PERMAN STILL MISSI" it read. He felt something like a headache start and just ignored it.

Hospitals always smelled strange: A little sharp, a little too clean. It was, Clark guessed, the smell of a place with a lot to hide. People died here. People screamed in pain behind the curtains in the ER. And no matter how good your memory (and Clark's was really good), you could never make your way back to the door you came in and never remember where you parked. Countless entrances to a place nobody wanted to visit.

Clark had never seen an autopsy performed before (on TV? In the movies? Sure.). But then, he'd never quite filmed an episode like this one before. He knew the show was popular largely because it was formulaic: Nothing much ever changed and audiences knew what to expect. Usually, Clark and the crew followed a cop around for a few days on a regular beat, asked a lot of personal questions about the stress of the job and what it was like working in 'Fill in the name of the city,' and then moved on. But autopsies weren't part of the formula.

Now Malone's reluctance and uncooperativeness had put them way off schedule and here was the result. And Clark still couldn't bring himself to call Lois. He knew it was more than just his failure with filming that was stopping him. It had something to do with the way he was feeling lately, like a stranger trapped in the body of a nobody who was pretending to be a tourist.

And, yes…

Sometimes he missed Lois (her sharp smile and wit and sarcasm).

At others, he questioned whether he really knew who she was at all.

The hospital basement. Rows of metal tables and the lights overhead. It was cold. Malone and Clark worked their way deeper into the labyrinth, arriving at the only body laid out like a piece of meat ready for all the trimmings. There were saws and blades and twisted things on the table beside the girl's bloated body.

Clark wanted to look away, but his eyes drifted back. She was the lesser problem because he couldn't bring himself to look at Malone at all; Clark was giving his discomfort away enough already without having to look the detective in the face.

The examination was carried out by a tall, handsome, black man with a resounding voice. He was wearing gloves, but they weren't covered in the gore Clark imagined an autopsy would cause. Not yet, anyway. Still, the man skillfully pulled them off, dropped them in the trash, and stepped forward to shake Clark's hand. To Malone, he gave a professional, rather cool nod.

"Malone," he said.

"King," was the short reply.

"I'm Gavin King," the examiner said to Clark. "I was informed you would be filming my work today."

"Uh. Yes," Clark said and felt his entire being shake. King carried himself like he saved the world before breakfast every day. He was sure and confident, like he belonged wherever he decided to be. It made something inside Clark jump up and down, arms waving, like it was trying to push past his skin to the surface.

"First time viewing an autopsy?"

"Yes," Clark admitted. He swallowed. "I hope I don't mess things up."

"Stay out of his way and you won't," Malone said with a chuckle and a shrug. King leveled a look at the detective that appeared to be irritation at first. But when Clark scrutinized it, he found that it was tempered with sincere respect and affection. He chanced a look at Malone and found the same expression mirrored back: admiration hidden by challenge.

King looked away first to turn back to Clark. "You're fine, Mr. Kent. I'm a fan of your show, by the way. You're always behind the scenes, but I recognize your voice from some of the interviews."

"Wow. You have a good ear."

"I have two and neither one is shabby. Come on, you caught me in the middle of the rundown."

He pulled on a fresh pair of gloves carefully. Having done that, he pushed the button on a slim, elegant recorder. It reminded Clark of his own camcorder, the one Jason had so admired only yesterday. He pulled it out, lifted his eyebrows in question at King who nodded his assent. Clark pressed record.

And King began his clinical description of the corpse. As he spoke, he moved around the table, sometimes touching with a practiced air, sometimes just gesturing like a politician to a crowd.

"Where was I? Right. Female. Mid-thirties. Lab work is being performed on samples to determine if the victim was under the influence of drugs or alcohol at the time of death. There are signs pointing to the likely presence of toxins in the victim's bloodstream and…"

He droned on, endlessly it seemed, and Clark found he didn't want to film this at all.

"…as with other victims of violence, the lacerations…"

Clark kept the camera raised but his throat was like a pipe from a grubby sink, coated with bile and sick. The girl, on the table, discolored like a bruise, sightless eyes gazing up…

Finally, King clicked the recorder off and looked at Clark with worry. "You don't look so good."

Clark slowly lowered the camera.

"It's…it's not fair," he said and he had no idea where the words came from. "For her to…be left like this."

The sympathy on King's face was raw.

"Hey, man. It's okay. I know," he said. He lifted a hand, looked as if he wanted to comfort Clark, but now his gloves were dirty, tainted with the girl's watery death, with her decay. His hand fell back down.

"Why do you think I got into this in the first place?" King said with a shrug. "I traveled the world, saw crime ruin lives. I saw a woman curl up and die on a sidewalk once. Nobody stopped to help her. Everybody just kept walking." His smile was sad. "I used to want to be a dancer. I was good, too. But since my company took that grand tour, since I learned what the world's really like, well, now I try to hand out justice the only way I can." He gave a little laugh and pointed at the dead woman. "I'm the only doctor who has never wanted money from her. I just want the truth. I just want her to tell me what she knows so Matches can put the bastard that did this away for a long, long time."

He lifted a scalpel and showed it to Clark whose voice had climbed its way down deep into his chest, refusing to come out. He nodded.

"You don't have to stay," King said after a moment.

"I'll stay," Clark whispered. He felt Malone's eyes on him, rather than saw. He wondered what the man was thinking.

He lifted his camera, kept filming.

:

Back at the station, Malone disappeared into Gordon's office immediately. At loose ends, Clark drank coffee and tried not to think about the sound of a knife cutting deep into dead skin. It should have been bloodless, but it hadn't been.

"Sometimes, with drownings," King had said and left it at that with a shrug. The footage he had taken, Clark realized, never needed to be seen by anyone. Ever.

He calmed down. He tried to let the busyness of the police department lull him. He felt like his eyes were going to shrivel with the heat of his headache. He still had to work.

A television blared somewhere in the station.

"—crime rates soar in Metropolis as the people continue to wonder, 'Where is the Man of Steel?' In an interview with a representative from the MPD, it was revealed that the police are struggling to put more officers on the street to counteract the violence and—"

Clark squeezed his eyes together; let the headache drown out the sound of the reporter's voice.

He was afraid of missing some good footage and therefore reluctant to go meet up with Jimmy and the guys at the motel. They were holed up in their rooms with the editing equipment, reviewing footage, cutting out the bad, and subtitling anything that wasn't easily hearable. Clark was here, feeling useless. All he could think to do was wait for Malone to come out, try to stay out of the way in the meantime, and ask the bored cops that passed by questions.

So he asked about Matches ("Good cop," they always said.).

And he asked about Bruce Wayne ("What about his partner?").

They swallowed heavily. Scratched their heads. "His, ah, partner's a good guy, too. Yeah," they all said. (Except for a rookie named Clive who admitted to meeting him once and said, "He's…kind of scary" with a look in his eye that made Clark wonder if he was in therapy for the experience).

Clark pushed his glasses up his nose, leaned in a little closer. "So, um. Can you tell me more about Detective Wayne?"

"Uh," they said, eyes dropping down. "I don't know much. Really. Whoa! Look at the time! Gotta go!"

Clark imagined 'Beep, beep!' sounded through the room as the cops went Road Runner and dashed away from the newest Acme trap courtesy of Bruce Wayne, Gotham's own Wile E. Coyote, genius.

He gave up after the third cop left him in a cloud of dust. Sure, Bullock had described him as a scary son of a bitch, but this was unreal. Who was this guy?

Clark decided that coffee was in order. While pouring a cup of liquid happy wakefulness, he stumbled upon a book as open as he had met in Gotham.

The tall, bald, deadly serious detective with the stark white coffee cup said his name was Crispus Allen. He shook Clark's hand with a crushing grip. They talked cautiously for a few minutes, Sumo wrestlers circling (only much, much thinner). Allen admitted he watched 'US Cops' sometimes, but didn't give an opinion. Allen seemed like the kind of guy who played everything close to the chest. But after a few jokes and a discovered mutual love of cookie dough ice cream, Allen loosened up.

"You're all right, Kent," Allen said after a minute. "The Commissioner was wrong about you."

"Uh, what did he say?"

"He said you were a twit."

"Ouch."

"If it's any consolation, I don't think you're a twit."

"Thanks…"

"Anytime. So what can I do to help with your little show?"

And it was a big invitation, a promise of honesty. Clark wondered if the fourth time was a charm.

"I just…don't get it. How is it that Matches Malone has a partner nobody's ever met?"

"What do you mean 'nobody'? I've met him."

"Yeah, but he's never here."

Allen's cheeks lifted and lines crinkled at the corners of his dark eyes. A genuine smile. "He's on vacation."

"That's kind of a long vacation."

"Tell me about it," Allen said. His voice said he was telling a joke and dropping a hint at the same time. Clark wanted to follow up, but there was a commotion from the other side of the room. Allen and Clark turned to see what had caused a sudden tension in the precinct.

The two guys in the dark suits were barricades with eyes. They wore microphones on their lapels and wires stretched from their ears to disappear beneath their suit jackets. Muscle, Clark thought. There was hired muscle in the MCU.

The reason why stepped into sight a minute later. He was average in height but had green eyes that sparkled. His brown hair was styled in a fresh manner and his dark gray suit had obviously been cut to fit him perfectly. He was handsome and comfortable in his own skin. Out of nowhere, Clark remembered seeing a campaign commercial for this man.

Bring Hope to Gotham, a confident voice had said.

So this was John Hunt, the young, popular mayor of Gotham City. He'd been elected in a landslide victory over three years ago.

"What's he doing here?" Allen asked. His back stiffened and he hid the majority of his dismay behind his plain coffee cup.

"You don't like him?" Clark whispered. He couldn't imagine anybody not liking this guy. From across the room, he watched as Hunt shook hands with the smiling officers on the floor. The man practically oozed charisma. If charisma were a thing that could, you know, ooze, Clark thought.

The bodyguards stayed close, looked watchfully from side to side.

Allen took another slow sip. "Not exactly. How can I explain this?" He shrugged. "I think he's a great mayor. But he's a little too gifted to be believed. I have my suspicions."

Clark's voice dropped even lower. "Why?"

"Because Bruce Wayne has his suspicions. Matches, too. They're not usually wrong about stuff like this."

"So…Detective Wayne doesn't trust him?"

"Ha," Allen not-laughed. "You should ask him about it yourself."

"Like I'll ever get to meet him," Clark snapped. Or he tried to snap. It was probably more of a pout. Or a huff. A huffy pout.

"You just never know," Allen said. "If you need to see him bad enough, maybe he'll find you." He clapped Clark on the shoulder, winked and then strolled away.

Clark had so many questions and ideas and worries that he felt like his head was going to melt with the friction they caused bumping around in his skull.

Like a superstar, Hunt worked his way through the station. His eyes fell on Clark once, but then slid away again. Clark wasn't exactly surprised. Certainly it was by Hunt's invitation that he was here filming at all. But Lois was the face of the network, not Clark. There was no reason Clark could think of for Hunt to know what he looked like. Who he was. Just a nobody, really.

The bodyguards walked with him to Gordon's office where Malone had been holed up for over half-an-hour now. Smooth and graceful, he disappeared into the office without even bothering to knock. One guard stood outside like a wall in a suit. The other followed Hunt inside. The door closed ominously. Silence followed.

Finally, Allen spoke from behind his desk. "This can't be good," he said.

Clark wondered why he felt exactly the same way. He had a feeling Hunt's visit had a lot to do with the autopsy. And even more to do with the missing, questionably real specter of Bruce Wayne.

Clark plopped down at Malone's desk and stared at Gordon's door. He wanted to be a fly on the wall. He wanted to know what was going on in there so bad he could taste it.

Or maybe that was just the coffee.

Or maybe curiosity usually tasted like coffee. Clark wasn't sure.

He was sure that he wanted to know what was being said to the extent that he imagined he could almost hear the men chattering away in the office. Arguing.

"I said dump him on a beat cop, not…not _Malone_," a voice said. Hunt, even upset, was still smooth. And the voice was so loud Clark almost jumped.

"Hey, I made the choice." Now Gordon's voice came through, rough and tired. "You wanted to show Gotham at its best, I picked the best."

"Yes, but filming the autopsy of this poor girl..."

"Kent will be tasteful," Malone said around a piece of gum. The Jersey accent in his mind was so strong Clark looked beside him to see if the detective was standing next to him. The dialogue was all so believable to Clark's ears that he felt a little shocked following along. Hunt had recognized him. What did that mean? _Did_ it mean anything? And boy, he had the best imagination in the _world_.

"I hope so." Hunt again. "This body turning up at a time like this, well, it's just not what I had in mind when I invited MBS to send the film crew."

"Oh, yeah. The autopsy," Malone said as if his memory had just been jogged. "When we called you with the details, we didn't expect you to come. In the flesh, as it were."

Hunt seemed to pause, to take a deep breath. "Detective, as you know my office is very concerned with all the citizens of Gotham. Of course, we are particularly interested in your case. And in what may or may not have been revealed to the film crew…"

"Hey, he knows what you know. He knows about the marks on the body. Knows about the drugs in her system. And since we're on the topic, the marks were the same as before. The way the body was found was the same, too." Malone would probably cross his arms, Clark imagined. Maybe squint.

As for Clark, he fixated on what 'before' meant. Had another body surfaced? If so, when?

"And?" the mayor said.

"And," Gordon cut in, "when we release the information on the autopsy to the press, people are going to notice. They're going to demand we do something about it."

"I thought you _were_ doing something about it," Hunt said darkly.

"We are," Gordon countered. "It—"

"It just might help," Malone cut in, "if your office would be a little more cooperative, eh?"

"You have our full cooperation."

"Really? Funny. If this is cooperation, I'd hate to see what it looks like when you're being uncooperative."

Hunt took another deep breath. Clark swallowed, wondered if this vivid sensation could ever be called imagination. If it couldn't, what did it mean that he could hear a conversation through a closed door?

"I want this solved, quickly," Hunt said with an edge to his comely voice. "I want it solved in a way that doesn't make people afraid of my city. That's why I invited the film crew: So that people could see Gotham cops working hard to keep the streets clean in a city finding its feet. We're on the eve of Gotham's rebirth and I want people to feel safe."

"What are you suggesting?" Gordon sighed.

"Just that you keep as many of the details of this death—"

"Murder," Malone said softly.

"Excuse me?"

"Murder. That girl was murdered."

"Yes. Whatever." Hunt didn't speak for a long moment. Clark wondered if the detective was staring him down, flint in those striking eyes. "Whatever circumstances there may be, I don't want us causing the public to panic. Do what you have to do, but do it fast. Malone here is supposed to be your best detective. Make sure he does his job."

Malone laughed dryly. "Mr. Mayor, let me just say that I'm doing the best I can, here. Honest. But the season just started and I can't always pull myself away from the tube to think about murder and junk." It was said in a parody of Malone's usual devil-may-care voice.

"Detective, please." Gordon took a deep breath. "Mr. Mayor, listen. Detective Malone is overworked. His caseload is unbelievable and he's handling it alone right now. I'm just saying that we might have to…call somebody in. To help."

Mayor Hunt didn't reply at first. "Gordon," he said at last. "It's one thing to employ a petty criminal like Malone."

"Hey!"

"Be quiet, Detective," Hunt hissed. "Internal Affairs had a field day investigating you and you know it. The department's been defending you for too long."

Malone didn't contradict him (part of Clark wanted him to) and it left a window for Hunt to press on. "But it's another thing all together to employ a man like Wayne. His connections, his history…what more can I say?"

"He's a good cop."

"Oh, trust me, Gordon: I know _exactly_ what he is."

There was a shuffle of feet. The sound of a hand touching a doorknob. "Do what you have to do, but try not to drag this entire department through the mud with you."

The door was flung open and Hunt stormed out. Clark jumped at the sound, at how the timing on Hunt's exit and the dialogue from his imagination connected flawlessly. And no, Clark was not so naïve that he believed the whole conversation was just his imagination. Okay, he wanted it to be just his imagination.

Clark was terrified.

And intrigued.

Hunt left as quickly as he had come, but the charm wasn't at full-force. His megawatt smile was dim, his expression haggard. His eyes fell on Clark once again, but this time they held, steady, appraising. It was as if they were asking, 'What do you know?'

Once Hunt was gone, the department was tense and silent. No one moved.

Malone and Gordon exited the office soon after. Malone had his arms crossed and his eyes behind his ugly glasses were filled with tension. There were grooves around his mouth, parenthesis setting his mouth and mustache apart.

"Well," Gordon said and clapped a hand on Malone's shoulder. "Call him. Tell him his 'vacation's' over. We need his help."

Malone sighed, rubbed at his forehead. "I'm telling you, Commissioner: He's not going to like it."

"He never does," Gordon answered.

To be continued…


	5. Chapter 5

Summary: Clark does some investigating and learns that he's bitten off more than he can chew.

Words: About 5000 for this chapter. Yowza.

Warnings: AU. Language, violence, identity nuttiness. Beta? What Beta?

Summary of events so far (because I haven't updated in a bit):

Clark Kent is filming an episode of 'US Cops' in Gotham City, following Detective Matches Malone as he tries to solve a murder. Only Malone is really, really bad at his job. Two young hustlers, a few hot cars, an autopsy, a sinister mayor, and a missing partner later, and Clark has no idea what's going on. Throw in his weird dreams where he can fly and Clark knows he needs a vacation. Our story continues.

::

Day Eleven

The longest day of Clark's life

Gotham's so-called "Golden Mayor" was long gone. Clark had no idea where Malone was.

Evening was tapping day on the shoulder and Jimmy Olsen was staring off into space. Clark couldn't recall ever seeing him look so sad before. Pale, red-headed, noodle-thin and freckled, he was swimming in his Metropolis Meteors jacket but he hugged it to him like it was his favorite thing. Clark had been meaning to clear his mind, to soak up some of the last of the sun before it went on vacation at the park across from the MCU. Jimmy had apparently had the same idea. The white Metropolis Broadcasting Station van was parked alongside the curb with the side door slid wide open. TV screens and complex equipment filled all the space where pinups weren't.

Clark looked away from the van back to Jimmy. He was slumped over the bench closest to the street with his elbows resting along the back. His head was tilted far back and his light eyes were a little wet.

"Jimmy?" Clark asked, shoving his hands into his pocket and walking towards him.

"Oh, hey, Clark," Jimmy said softly. He surreptitiously ran the back of his hand under his eyes. Clark didn't mention it.

"What are you looking at?"

Jimmy waved vaguely upwards. "Nothing. The sky."

Behind his glasses, Clark's eyes danced mischief. "Anything good up there?"

But Jimmy didn't laugh with him. He spoke haltingly. "No. Nothing. Not anymore. It seems empty these days. You know."

Clark shook his head. "Uh…no. What?"

Jimmy gawked at him. "Oh, come on! You know what I mean!"

"No, I really don't."

Standing to his full height (not very tall), Jimmy tugged on his jacket. "I'm Jimmy Olsen."

"Yes…?"

"So…You know who my best friend is, right?"

"No…?"

Now Jimmy threw his hands in the air in exasperation and shook his head. He was smiling, but it wasn't a cheerful thing. "Jeez, Clark. You're really out of it, aren't you? Come on, who is this?" Abruptly, Jimmy extended his hands in front of his body and swayed his body from side to side all while wearing a serious, powerful expression. He made wind noises as he moved.

Clark shook his head.

Undaunted, Jimmy crossed his arms and looked down at the grass with concern, as if he were looking down at the whole world, cautious and determined. He puffed out his chest a little.

Clark shrugged and shook his head. "Who…?"

Jimmy's hands flopped to his sides. "Okay, so you suck at charades. Superman, duh."

Clark flinched and couldn't say why. Icy chills started at his forehead and ended at his feet. He felt like shivering.

"You're best friends with…?" and he couldn't bring himself to say the name. He just couldn't.

"Superman. Yes." A red eyebrow shot up behind the floppy fringe of Jimmy's hair. "Are you joshing me, Clark?"

"No," Clark said as he shook his head. Jimmy looked sincerely hurt. Clark's expression went from confused to apologetic. "I'm sorry. I guess I just forgot."

"How do you forget something like that?"

"I…I don't know. I guess I haven't been sleeping well."

"Hmm," Jimmy said. He tugged the jacket tighter and Clark suddenly had the realization that the jacket meant something to Jimmy, not because hew as a fan (he was, but not enough to want the jacket). The jacket meant so much to him because Superman had given it to him. Maybe as a birthday present, or maybe just for no reason at all. Maybe he'd taken him to a game and they'd sat side by side, watching the excitement together.

"It's been months now. I want him to come back," Jimmy said at last. He rubbed at a watch on his wrist and it was probably the coolest watch Clark had ever seen. He wondered how he'd never noticed it before.

"I…" Clark said. And he had no opinion on the guy one way or the other. Superman was someone that didn't really affect him. He was like a god and what did a god need with Clark Kent?

Jimmy didn't comment on Clark's silence. Instead, he said, "And yeah, it sucks to be me. I go from having the coolest best friend in the world to lonely from one day to the next. But do you know who I really feel bad for?"

"No," Clark said and looked up at the sky with Jimmy. He only saw a beautiful day fading into a beautiful night; Jimmy saw a cold world without his best friend. "Who?"

"Lois. I feel bad for Lois."

And with that, he clapped Clark on the shoulder, walked away slowly, and then climbed back into the van. He slammed it closed and Clark was left standing by the bench feeling unbalanced.

The sun set and Gotham turned dark.

::

Back inn his crappy motel (paint chipping, cracked mirrors), Clark stared at the phone. He'd been avoiding calling her for over four days now. He always had an excuse.

Maybe part of him didn't want to tell her that he was utterly failing at his job out here.

And maybe he didn't want to hear the cold indifference in her voice, the sound of her admitting to the world that she didn't care whether Clark Kent lived or died.

He sighed, dialed.

"Hello," she said after the fourth ring and he could hear it in her voice: She'd been crying. Just like Jimmy only somehow…worse.

"Lois. Hi. It's me. Clark. Clark Kent."

She sniffled. "Yes? What do you want?"

She didn't seem to care that he'd heard her crying. She blew her nose loudly and Clark imagined her sitting at her desk, still working while night crashed down outside her high windows like a curtain closing on a long day. It *had* been a long day.

"I just…thought I'd call to let you know how things are going out here." Just to hear your voice and to make sure you're okay, were some of the things that didn't make it out of his mouth.

"Jimmy keeps me posted since you can't seem to," Lois said thickly.

"Oh. I'm sorry. There's this murder and…"

"I know."

"Oh."

They were silent and he thought he heard the scratch of a rough tissue rubbing at her soft face.

"Are…are you okay?" he said when the silence and the worry took over and made him.

"Yes. Yes of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Lois…"

He heard her palm slap the surface of her big desk. "Oh, fine. Yes, here I am, the big baby!" Her laugh wasn't humorous or lighthearted. It was the laugh of someone who was surprised they had it in them to laugh at all anymore. "I used to be a very independent woman, you know."

"Y-you still are." You're amazing and smart and determined, more words added to the list of things he'd never, ever tell her.

"Sure I am. Do you know what it's like to live without worry for years—for years!—and then suddenly have to accept the fact that I could fall out a window today and actually die?"

"I—"

"No one would catch me. No one would hold me and…" her words dissolved into sobs again and Clark just held the phone and listened to her fall apart.

For the first time he could remember, he deliberately thought about Superman, considered what he thought about Metropolis' favorite son. It boiled down to this:

He'd made Lois cry.

At that moment, Clark hated the bastard.

::

Day Twelve

At last

Everything Mayor Hunt had said was on Clark's mind. Had there been another drowning victim? If so, what connection did it have to the popular mayor? Why was Hunt so concerned about one woman in a city full of crime?

That was enough to give anybody trouble sleeping. On top of it all, he'd had stupid dreams about flying again. He wondered what kind of guy had dreams as monumentally stupid as the ones he'd been having lately. Maybe he was cracking up.

"So…" Clark tried casually when Malone finally strolled in. He was wearing too-tight slacks the color of brown eggs. The jacket matched. The white, sharp-collared shirt under it was unbuttoned way past what was decent and the gold chains were there for all the world to see, completely buried in the hair on Malone's chest. He looked tired and was nursing his third cup of coffee.

"So? Huh?" Malone mumbled. He looked blearily at Clark. "Who are you, again?"

"Kent. Clark Kent. From the Metropolis Broadcasting Station."

"Oh. Right. Why are you here so early?"

"It's…it's twelve thirty in the afternoon."

"Is it really?"

"Yes."

"Jesus." Malone rubbed at his jaw, dark stubble probably stripping the skin off his palm. "I meant to be here much later than this."

"You mean earlier?" Clark asked, tone like that of a scientist asking a lunatic for his opinion on the space program.

"No. No, I definitely mean later."

With that Malone took another long sip of coffee and his eyes became noticeably wider. "Nectar of the gods," he said.

Clark tried to look casual by leaning against the counter next to Malone. Oddly, he was starting to feel comfortable here at the MCU. He still wasn't sure where the episode was going or how long it was going to take to get it there, but the ride was certainly one of a kind.

"Um…so…your partner's coming back from vacation…?" he winced at how unsubtle he sounded. He was working hard to keep his questions as far away from the big white elephant in the room, the one that had 'I can hear through walls' painted on its side.

Malone nodded. "Word travels fast, don't it? He is."

"Um…I'd like to schedule an interview. If that's at all, you know, possible."

Malone squinted at him and gave a tight-lipped smile. "You kidding?" he asked.

"Um…no. I'm really asking."

"Kent, you never cease to amuse me. I like that little thing you do with your glasses when you're nervous or…what's the word? uncertain."

"What little thing?"

"You push them up and get the lenses all smudgy." Malone leaned closer, eyes darting over Clark's face.

"I…I do?" And Clark wanted to pull back but felt glued.

"Yep."

"Oh," Clark said. He felt himself reaching for his glasses but forced his hand to stay still by forming a tight fist at his side. "So…about that interview?"

Malone pulled away. "Right, right," he said, bemusedly. It was as if he had been deliberately trying to distract Clark and was simultaneously frustrated and tickled by his failure. "Well, my partner's not anybody you're ever going to have to worry about," Malone said with a sad imitation of regret in his voice.

Clark felt confusion sneak up on him like a college kid in a vampire costume paid to work at a haunted house. "Why?" he asked.

"Well, you probably won't be seeing much of him," Malone said with a toothy smile. "He works nights."

With that, he whirled on his heels and strolled away leaving Clark to wonder, "What the hell does that mean?" Before he could actually give the thought voice, Malone cried over his shoulder, "Sorry, you boys can't film with me today. I've got too much to do to baby-sit your asses."

Clark felt anger sizzle under his skin and clamped his jaw tight. Another day wasted because Malone was a dick. Once again, he was stuck being the butt of every joke. A doormat. Bendable, pose-able, do-what-he's-told-able. And he wanted to do something about it.

Sometimes.

But then he remembered that he was just Clark Kent. Even if he suddenly did grow a backbone, who would believe him? He sighed and felt his shoulders droop.

One day, he really was going to lose his cool. What would happen when he did, he wasn't sure.

At loose ends, he headed back to his motel with Jimmy in the van. Jimmy, having opened up to Clark about his Superman-induced loneliness now regaled him with "This one time, with Superman" stories. But Lois' tears and misery were still fresh in Clark's mind and the most he could do was nod and make polite noises. Superman upset him in ways that things didn't normally.

He shut the door of his hotel softly and then tossed his bags onto his bed. The staff hadn't bothered to make the bed or clean the room today. The same towel he had showered with was bunched up on the back of the toilet. Clark started at it for a minute, then turned and flopped down onto the bed. He stared at the wall. "He works nights," Malone said in his head over and over.

And Clark…he loved a mystery. Sometimes too much.

Clark jerked his laptop out of its case, pulled it onto his lap. He turned it on and worried his lip. Ideas were forming.

When his computer found the network, he started his search. Being a journalist, being a member of the professional organization, having connections—on days like this, Clark realized that it was pretty awesome. Entire articles opened up like flowers of knowledge. Sure, he could limit his search to just Gotham newspapers. Or, he could dig a little deeper. Or much, much deeper.

An hour later, shoulders sore, he landed slumped back onto his messy comforter. "Wow," he said. He craned his neck to re-read the opening paragraph of the article: The head of the 'Beautify Gotham' urban development committee appointed by the John Hunt, the city's so-called 'Golden Mayor,' was found dead in the Gotham River by an off-duty cop yesterday evening.

Her name had been Heather Jordan and her vision was responsible for the dramatic construction happening across the city today. Her legacy. If Clark concentrated, he could hear the sound of the midnight crews bashing old, narrow streets to pieces and hauling pipes in and out of the holes they'd made. He marveled that the city was so intensely involved with the construction project that crews pressed on long after the rest of the world slept. Heather Jordan had been the architect of the entire project.

She'd been a lovely woman with dark brown hair and a wide smile.

Clark felt a piece of the puzzle snap into place: Mayor Hunt was interested in drowning victims, especially women, because the head of the committee for his greatest mayoral project had been drugged, battered, and left for dead in the river. She'd been missing for weeks by the time her body surfaced. It was eerily similar to the woman whose autopsy Clark had filmed the day before.

But surely her position with the city couldn't be the only reason Hunt was so adamant that the police department get to the bottom of this murder.

It was all so sad, he realized. This girl had been killed and months and months later, her killer hadn't been brought to justice. It made Clark angry, made him want to do something to help. It might be scary getting involved, but he'd been shot at before. He'd interviewed hardened cops. He'd driven in a car with Matches Malone. Surely nothing was scarier than that? Investigating a murder, trying to solve this crime for the sake of Heather Jordan and the nameless girl he'd seen split open by Gavin King's scalpel, even if it was scary, he knew it was the right thing to do.

He rolled his big body back up, hunched over his little laptop. He tried another search or two and huffed. The facts came at him, but the entirety of the story—the meaty, mystery, 'The butler did it' moment—never came.

"He works nights," Malone said again in his memory, echo-chamber style. A little more emphatic. A little like a five-year-old poking at your side just to see how long you can take it.

The solution was right there. Clark rolled it around in his mind, like tasting wine.

Mayor Hunt didn't like Detective Bruce Wayne even though he was one of the guys out to solve Heather Jordan's murder. Bruce Wayne was mysteriously 'on vacation' and had been for weeks from what Clark could gather. Was Hunt responsible for Wayne's extended vacation? If so, why? And what did it mean? And how could he prove it?

Proof.

Clark stared at his computer. Then he pushed his glasses up his nose and realized that he did it when he was feeling crafty sometimes, too.

Articles were good up to a point.

Police records were way better.

::

He was using his cell phone…like a flashlight.

Somehow, this did not make him feel like a spy. He'd felt pretty double-oh-seven-ish at the start of his late night field-trip. He'd taken the under-used company car that had been gathering dust in the motel parking lot for days.

And getting in to the records room had been pretty easy. He'd just been as quiet and as fast as possible. Nobody had seen him or heard him, and Clark was forced to wonder if he was just a lot faster and stealthier than he'd ever imagined.

Like a ninja or something. He knocked into a filing cabinet, cursed under his breath and changed his mind. Getting in to the room had been a little tricky. He'd waited until someone came out, and then slid in behind them as the door had closed. He had no idea how they hadn't heard him, seen him.

The cabinets were labeled comprehensively. "Internal Affairs, 'T' through 'Z'," he read out loud. He opened the drawer, found the file that looked the most promising ('W') and started flipping through the forms. Inside, was carbon form after carbon form in pink and green and white. "Page one of three," he read, but when he counted the sheets, all three were there. The same was true with the next form, and the next. Each sheet was labeled as to where it was *_supposed_* to go—'Keep for department records', 'For consulting A.D.A.', 'For I.A.''—but none of them had been sent to those places.

Something scraped on the floor. Clark's back stiffened and then he whirled around to face the confines of the room. He held up his cell phone and squinted into the darkness. Nothing.

He let out a sigh of relief and turned back to the thick file. Unless the department had started filing things electronically, it looked like these forms had never been submitted. There were no stamps to prove that they'd ever been through any of the necessary departments. In fact, it looked like they'd been filed away and left to gather dust. They _had_ been signed by the head of Internal Affairs, a guy named Dent, but the space where the commissioner was meant to have signed was blank. Curious, Clark skimmed the thick block of information in the center of the form and words jumped out:

Pending the decision of this committee…Detective Bruce Wayne…to be suspended…violation of code of conduct…abuse of power…threatening a city official…

"Oh my god," Clark felt his eyes widen. He checked the date on the form. It was from _months_ ago. If this was true…

If this was true…

Then Bruce Wayne had been suspended, but his case had been deliberately lost in the paperwork.

"But why? Why get rid of him and then cover it up?" Clark whispered.

"Late night research?" a deep, gravely voice inquired from the darkness. For the millionth time since coming to Gotham, somebody had gotten the drop on him. Clark gasped, felt his heart leap in his chest. He spun on his heels, felt his back hit the drawer and it slammed closed with a thud. The file threatened to slip from his grasp and he clutched it to his chest.

There was someone in the room with him. Someone who seemed darker than the dark.

His cell phone clattered to the ground and the screen went dark. The room was like a cave, suddenly too small with all the filing cabinets crowding in around him, menacing because he could no longer see their sharp corners. He dropped to his knees, scrambled for his cell, felt his shoulder hit something. The cell phone slipped away and he scuttled forward madly, fingers grasping. Finally, he had it but his heart was in his throat and his hands were shaking. He came to his feet, held the phone up high and aimed it at where the big, dark figure had been. There was nothing.

From closer than before, the voice, like a dangerous purr, spoke again. "Graceful," it said. Maybe there was humor in the tone, but it was so sick with intensity that Clark couldn't tell. It tickled up his spine, like fear spiked with…something. He turned the light towards the voice. This guy moved like a shadow: Just as the light reached him, he seemed to shift to avoid being directly in it.

Clark stared at the silhouette of a broad, tall, muscular man with unreadable eyes. The dark of the room seemed to caress him, enfold him.

"Um…this isn't what it looks like," Clark tried. His voice was raspy from disuse for hours. From fear.

"Then what is it, Mr. Kent? Because it looks like you're reading confidential files. It looks like breaking and entering."

Clark pushed his glasses up his nose, an awkward thing to do with the file in his hand, forms about to fall everywhere. "You know my name?"

The words were a hiss: "Don't waste my time, Mr. Kent. I want to know what you think you're doing."

And suddenly, it clicked. "He works nights," Clark heard from far away, a nudge at his mind.

"Y-you're Matches Malone's partner," he said, suddenly certain of the fact. "Bruce Wayne? Um…I'm working with Detective Malone so…I need to do research and he wouldn't mind. Well, not really, so…" He squinted at the face, only got a vague impression of hard lines and distinct planes. His eyes were taking their time to complete the picture and he wanted to step closer to get a better look.

"Don't hide behind my partner. If I tell him you were snooping around in his records room, he'll do worse to you than I will."

Clark shook his head. The light of his cell phone wavered as his hand shook. "This isn't _his_ record room. It's Gordon's. It's…it's the _city's_. Malone doesn't own it."

The voice was like crackling electricity, just a few feet away and deadly. "*_Detective* _Malone owns this city, if you hadn't noticed."

And there _was_ something to that. A grain of truth, but Clark's business was the truth and a tiny lie was marring the surface of it all. He could smell it, a hound on the trail of a rabbit.

"No," he said and then did take a step closer. The shape of the door was clear to him, just over Wayne's shoulder, a way out of this uncomfortable moment. He held onto the file in his hand, defiantly. "No, I don't believe he does."

"I'm going to have to ask you to put that back where you got it, Mr. Kent."

Another bold step, another push of his glasses. "I-I think you're the guy running things. That's why I never see you." His lips worked as his mind churned out the idea and the more he spoke, the more true it seemed. "They…they brought you in as a last resort when even *_Matches*_ couldn't solve this case. You're the ace in the hole."

Clark was close enough to see the man's face and he almost gasped. Dark hair and eyes as blue as Malone's only…clearer, just a little sharper. There was a border of pain to them and that surrounded again by a rim of cunning. He seemed taller than Malone, broader. Meaner.

Clark swallowed, felt like tugging on his ugly tie to get more air, to…something. He was close enough now that the shadows only accentuated the fact that Detective Bruce Wayne was unrealistically handsome. Like a movie star or a prince in a storybook. Only movie stars and princes never had an aura of danger. Wayne sent waves of it washing the room…

And Clark.

Well, Clark was drowning in them.

Two feet between them, neither man backing down. Wayne was blocking the door and if he could just get around him, he could take the file back to his motel, read it, figure out what was going on.

"Mr. Kent, don't make me have to _take_ that file from you."

Clark clutched it to his chest, shook his head again. "No. You're going to let me walk out of here with it because I-I can help. I just need the details. I need to know what you're keeping from me so I can help. _Please_."

A beat and those intense, dyed denim eyes blinked. Once.

Then he oofed as Wayne got a hold of his collar and wrestled him back. His glasses slipped down and then off his nose and he feared for them as their feet tap-danced over the place where they landed. The light from his phone sent the room into disco ball confusion. He held it tighter and the plastic bit into his hand. It fell to the ground once more. Free now, Clark's hand came up to push at the hand at his chest. It was ineffectual.

Clark shuffled where he was pushed, cried out as his back hit the wall beside the door. Then fight or flight kicked in and he chose a little of both.

"Leggo!" he huffed and tugged on the folder.

Despite how he had seemed in the shadows, the detective wasn't as tall as Clark, but he had brute strength and he used it to spin Clark around until his face was against the wall and his arm was twisted behind him. The move felt familiar…

"Aaarrr!" Clark cried out as the tendons in his wrist threatened to snap. He released the folder and listened for the sound of it hitting. It never did and then he was whirled back around. Wayne's hands settled hard on his upper arms. Breathless was only the beginning of what Clark felt. He was also pissed and just a little intrigued. Curiosity was asking him over and over, what happens next? Pinned up against a wall by a handsome and mysterious guy…well…

With his back hunched a little, struggling, Wayne towered over him and Clark looked up at him through the shock of hair that had fallen in his face. Wayne was breathing hard, too, staring down at him with his lips parted.

"Mr. Kent," Wayne said softly. His fingers tightened on Clark's biceps, as if testing their width.

"Um…" Clark tried to answer. The knee was the thing that sent Clark's heart racing even harder. It pushed between his legs and knocked them apart, spreading them.

Then hot breath was over his face. "I think," that dark, growl said, "that you're playing a dangerous game."

Clark tried to keep his body still. He stared up at Wayne's stormy face, licked his lips and answered, "Uh, yeah. Maybe."

Wayne stopped his own reply, whatever it may have been. His teeth clacked together loudly. His voice, when he spoke, sounded surprised, as if he couldn't stop himself from stating, "You don't need your glasses."

"I really do."

Wayne shook his head. "No," he said, shifting his hand up higher to Clark's shoulders, "you don't."

Breathing was a thing Clark was trying to remember to do, but the feel of Wayne's body, warm and pressing against his, kept making him forget all over again. Who needed air, anyway when he could see the stubble along Wayne's neck and feel the moist exhale of his breath along his mouth; Breathe him in instead?

Wayne leaned. Closer. Stared at Clark's tongue as it darted out again. He showed his teeth, like an animal about to lunge.

Then he backed away. Clark gulped and felt cold suddenly. Even bare feet away from him, Clark still couldn't hear this man move.

"I think it's time for you to go, Mr. Kent."

"You can call me 'Clark,'" he blurted and felt pretty lame, but also didn't feel like taking it back.

"Do you let my partner call you that?"

"Uh…the topic never came up. Actually. We have a…professional relationship. I'm not even sure I can use that word."

"Go away, Mr. Kent."

He stooped, grabbed his glasses and phone, finding them with remarkable ease. "The, uh, folder?"

"Go away," and then a pause like eternity, near-palpable effort, "Clark."

Clark smiled. The scale had just tilted in his favor he decided.

He scurried away from the records room, the battle lost as far as investigation went, but he had a place to start now. Besides, the war was still on and he wasn't going to give up. He would get to the bottom of this. He hadn't been lying. He did want to help Malone and Wayne solve this murder.

Lois had taught him everything he knew and she didn't even know what 'giving up' meant.

Well, neither did he.

To Be Continued…


	6. Chapter 6

The Story So Far:

Network lackey Clark Kent is sent to Gotham to film an episode of U.S. Cops. Unfortunately, he gets stuck with Matches Malone who is a bad cop and a bad person in general. He also happens to be investigating a murder that's looking to be the work of a serial killer. Luckily, his mysterious and handsome partner, Bruce Wayne, has been called back into action after a controversial forced leave of absence. Bruce and Clark's first meeting is filled with tension and maybe even attraction. But Clark has other things to worry about: He's plagued with bad dreams and hints that he may be more than just a man. Our story continues…

* * *

He dozed off, curled up on the too-small motel bed and he dreamed.

Today, he could fly again. It was a nice change from that other dream; the one where he fell and the green all around made him want to vomit. No, this was one of the good ones. The air was so clean and crisp and cool and he felt each bead of moisture in the atmosphere like a kiss on his skin.

Something red whipped at his ankles. The sky around him was sunset blush and the clouds were like something from a painting—perfect streaks of cirrus, like a fluffy pink confection of Rococo lovers or even the Sistine Chapel. Everything was so vivid and hyper-saturated that the colors reminded him of Cinemascope and Technicolor and Panavision—all the Hollywood tricks contrived to beat TV— only thrown together into a blender and then amped up higher with Sun Bleach.

More than just intense: Real. It had the feel of a memory, not the fluffy transience of a dream.

Which is why the big white dog in the cape that pulled up next to him, smiling a goofy, carefree smile—red tongue lolling out of its mouth—jolted him awake just after midnight.

Blanket pooling at his waist, he rubbed his face hard and then harder. "What the…? A dog? Flying?" The cape the Clark in his dream had been wearing…he would never admit to that.

Okay, maybe it had been a little cool. But he was already a weird enough guy, which is why he vowed to Brillo Pad the cape from his mind.

And he'd always had weird dreams (there was that one about the little imp in the stupid hat who kept trying to talk to him. "Wake up, ya idjit! Don'cha know what's goin' on here?"), but this one took the cake.

He squinted at his alarm clock (blur, blur, slanted blur, maybe a colon…?) gave up, shoved his glasses on his face and then tried again. He groaned at the now visible numbers. Here he was, wide-awake, and it was barely even tomorrow. He flopped back on the bed, wondered if he could force himself back to sleep.

It was doubtful. He could hear Jimmy Olsen snoring and that guy was five rooms down the hall from him. If he concentrated, he could drown out most of it.

Still…

He missed Metropolis, or maybe he just missed life when it was simple.

* * *

Day Thirteen

No one had seen Matches Malone. Clark assumed he was shaking in a bathroom somewhere, fighting the urge to go down the street and around the corner to the convenience store and buy a pack of the cheap menthols he smoked. Or didn't smoke as the case seemed to be because of his persistent lack of matches and/or lighters as well as the fact that he was trying to kick the habit.

Clark cracked his back, pushed up his glasses and hunkered down further in the comfy seat in Malone's empty office. The chair and the desk both happened to belong to the mysterious Bruce Wayne. Up until the night before, Clark had been doubting Detective Wayne even existed. He just hadn't been real like Malone who tortured Clark with his words, manners, and ethics on a daily basis. He wasn't real like Gordon, whose newest cup read: "Get the Hell out of My Office" and where DID he have those things made? In his blacker moods, Clark had wondered: If all of Gotham is tilting at windmills, does that make me Sancho Panza?

Because Bruce Wayne was a phantom. A specter.

Or he *had* been.

But the night before, Clark had gotten up close and personal with the detective. Saying the man had made an impression on him was an understatement: If impressions were trees, then Wayne had been a national park.

And today he was nowhere. And today Matches was nowhere. And faced with that, Clark felt like he was *getting* nowhere.

The weather was gloom and doom for as far as the eye could see. The sun had apparently gone to bed and covered itself with a blanket of heavy clouds, kept hitting snooze. Fog crept along the ground and it hardly seemed like spring had sprung at all.

And today, Clark was tired of not knowing the truth about Bruce Wayne and Matches Malone and the victims in the water. Very, very tired.

But there was nothing to do, so Clark wandered the MCU with Jimmy, interviewed cops with too much time on their hands, and darted back and forth from the office Malone shared with Wayne to the coffee machine in the larger, bustling room near the front of the station. He lost count of how many cups he had, of how many times Jimmy grumbled about being abandoned by Malone. Again.

During a really dull span of time, Jimmy took him to the van and showed him the footage he wanted to use for the show. It came to barely fifteen minutes total.

"We can't make a show like this," Clark said, rubbing his face.

"I know what you mean. But most of the interviews we have with Malone had to be cut. Chuck says he destroyed over twenty minutes of footage of him talking about something called a donkey show. He wouldn't even let me see it before he erased it."

Clark felt the blood drain from his face. "Gah?" he coughed.

Jimmy hit him on the back a few times. "You okay?"

"Gah-no-hack! When was that footage shot?"

"Dunno," Jimmy admitted. "It's like he got a hold of the camera when no one was looking. What's a donkey show, anyway?"

"I'll tell you when you're older," Clark managed around the lump in his throat.

"Well, we've already been here for two weeks," Jimmy sighed. "If we tell Lois we've been here all this time and have nothing to show for it, she'll kill us. Worse, she'll take the cost for our funerals out of our paychecks."

"Worse…?" Clark said.

"Whatever," Jimmy laughed. "So, what are we going to do?"

Clark looked at the smaller man and shrugged. "We'll think of something."

* * *

When Malone deemed to stumble in to the station, it was several hours of footage that Jimmy called "Two steps beyond useless" later. Clark felt a migraine pushing at the sides of his skull and whenever he blinked, the lights of the precinct looked like orbs of stabbing green instead. He was really beginning to dislike the color green.

Malone—wearing something like an entire episode of "Starksy and Hutch" woven into a polyester blend—didn't stop to talk to anyone. Even the criminals who called out a friendly "Matches!" didn't get a nod or a grunt from the detective. Instead, he went straight for the Commissioner's office and slammed the door behind him. Clark felt guilty for doing it, but this time, he made the effort because he wanted to know what went on behind closed doors. Especially if Bruce Wayne's partner was the one behind the closed door.

A minute passed. Then two.

He slapped his hand against one ear than the other and got weird looks from a few cops. Then he squinted his eyes and concentrated on his ears. When he wiggled his jaw and squinted at the same time to see if that would help, he realized that more than just a few cops were looking at him strangely. He had an audience.

"Um…sorry…uh…ear infection…?" he explained.

Many of the people watching looked disturbed. Some shook their heads as if to say, "Idiot."

Even Jimmy hurried to his side, worry all over his freckled face. "Hey, are you okay? You look," he began, but then dropped his voice to a secretive whisper, "constipated or something. I've got something for that."

"Uh, no thank you, Jimmy. I'm good. Really, just an ear infection."

"Your ears were fine a minute ago."

"Um. Yes. Sudden onset ear infections run in my family."

"That sucks."

"Yeah…"

Face flaming, Clark gave up on the attempt and the lame explanation. Today his hearing was just…normal. He had no idea what he'd done wrong to break it, but now that it was as common as it had ever been, he found he missed the ability. Especially since Malone was in there gabbing about something to Gordon.

About ten minutes later, Malone re-emerged looking agitated. Even his footsteps were those of a man with nothing going his way and a lot to say about it. He stalked across the room to stand by Clark where he was leaning near the coffee maker next to Jimmy. This close, Clark could see that dark circles were barely hidden behind his horrible tinted glasses.

"Olsen," he said, eyes on Jimmy. Then, without looking at Clark at all he added, "Kent." Clark frowned. It wasn't like they were friends or anything, but Malone usually had more than that to say to him. Clark tried to think of what he'd done since yesterday to make Malone treat him like he had something contagious, but nothing came to mind. He felt like he'd had more interaction with the mysterious Bruce Wayne the day before than with Malone. To Clark, it was official: Both men were infuriating.

"Hi, Malone," Jimmy said shortly and crossed his arms. "Can we film you today or what?"

Malone almost smiled, but then it slinked away again and a black look took its place. "I'd put that in the 'or what' category, short stuff," he said. Something about his voice caught Clark's attention: The Jersey wasn't as strong or as offensive. Instead, some deeper, crisper tone was creeping in.

"Short—?" Jimmy mouthed, eyes wide with disbelief. "What's that supposed—"

Malone cut him off by holding up a big, hairy, square hand. "I've got to go talk to King about that autopsy and I don't need a fucking shadow." Clark felt his pulse leap at the news. A piece to the puzzle was going to snap into place today and Malone was keeping him from it.

"Detective," he tried and was surprised yet again when Malone didn't even turn to face him. "We don't have very much usable footage and we've almost wasted an entire day of filming. It would really help us out if we could go with you to the hospital."

Malone's big mustache twitched while he thought. Then, for a moment so short even a hummingbird couldn't have gotten very far, he looked at Clark—then his eyes slipped away again as if he couldn't stand the sight of him. "No," he said at last. Without further explanation, he turned and walked away. No jokes, no inappropriate comment, just a brush off and the silent treatment. Clark almost didn't believe that Malone was the same man he'd known all this time.

"What was up with him?" Jimmy asked, scratching his ginger head.

Clark could only shake his in reply. He had no idea, but between Malone and Wayne, he was having a pretty awful 48 hours.

* * *

Gavin King was just as impressive the second time around, Clark decided. Meeting him was more relaxed this time around because there was no dead body on a table nearby. Instead, King was just looking over some forms in his office in a pair of slacks and a nice shirt. His handsome face split into a grin when Clark knocked on the frame of his open door. He stood and gestured Clark inside, urged him to have a seat. Clark took it and felt at ease as King joined him.

"Good to see you again, Clark," King said. "And so soon."

"Same here," Clark said honestly. Gavin was a great guy, even if the circumstances of their acquaintanceship were bleak.

King leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and crossed one long leg over the other. "I have to admit I was surprised to get your call. Detective Malone was just here. I thought you'd have tagged along with him earlier. I mean, you literally just missed him."

Clark tried to look calm. Lying was not his strong suit.

"Well, yeah, I wanted to, but we got caught up filming at the MCU and Matches said it was okay to follow up with you."

King's face split into another dazzling smile. "Matches, is it?" he asked.

Clark looked at him questioningly. "Excuse me?"

"You called him 'Matches.' Not 'Detective Malone' or even just 'Malone.' The guy must be growing on you."

Clark felt his face go red and wanted nothing more than to climb under a rock for a year. "I guess I've been here too long," he said at last. But King's speculative look took a long time to slip away. At last he said, "So you were here for the detailed results of the Debbie Carlson autopsy, right? The one you filmed?"

"Yes, that's correct," Clark said and tried to keep his voice casual, but the name Debbie Carlson struck him because she wasn't just a nameless victim anymore.

"Well, I'm a busy guy, so I'll keep it brief. If you have any questions, you can double check with Malone since he has a copy of just about everything. Okay?"

"Yes. Okay," Clark said all nerves.

"Are you filming?"

"Just a tape recorder, if that's okay," Clark answered, flashing the small device. He didn't want Chuck or Jimmy to know he was investigating the murder instead of trying to make an episode, hadn't even told them where he was going. Everything said by King today was for his ears only and the less evidence of his meddling the better, he figured.

"That's fine. Ready?" King asked and Clark was again struck by how calm and assured the man was. It was truly an enviable trait.

"Uh, yeah," was Clark's ineloquent reply. He couldn't believe he was getting away with deceit of this nature. If Malone found out, he had a suspicious feeling he'd be waking up next to a horse's head.

Swimming with the fishes?

Wearing a pair of concrete goulashes?

Something like that.

King was flipping through a chart on his desk and he began speaking in the same clinical voice he used when describing the bodies he cut open on a daily basis.

"Debbie Carlson, age 33, no known residency, but she had a boyfriend. He says she's been missing for three weeks. She had a rap sheet a mile long."

Clark was surprised, but he couldn't say why. "What kind of charges?"

"Possession of all kinds or narcotics. Dealing the same on many occasions. Petty theft. She had her license revoked for driving under the influence. For someone so young," King said sadly, "she tore her life up very well."

"And the cause of her death?"

King tapped the page in front of him. "She probably overdosed."

"And then fell into a river?"

"Stranger things have happened," King said, but Clark could tell he didn't buy his own line.

"So, what did she take? Meth? Cocaine?"

"Nothing so pedestrian," King explained. "This is new stuff. It's been a pain in my neck for the past year and a half. The kids call it 'Live-wire' but most of them just call it 'Live.' It's a whole new breed of ugly. And if you get a bad dose," he said, but finished the sentence with a whistle and a shake of his head. "She had enough of it pumping through her veins to kill a horse."

Clark blinked slowly at the graphic comparison. "But…what about the marks on her body?" he asked.

"Some really are from boats hitting her body after she surfaced. But some of them are definitely from a struggle."

"So you don't really believe she overdosed," Clark said.

"I do, actually. She has a history of drug abuse." King sat forward and looked at Clark seriously. "But that doesn't mean I believe the drugs were completely self-administered. See, her wounds tell a story: It's possible she was already high by the time she was attacked. For any attacker, it wouldn't have taken very much to push her over the edge to an overdose."

"Can you be certain?" Clark wondered.

"Well, there are enough punctures on her arm, it's conceivable she shot up more than once that night. She didn't put up much of a fight, but she did try as much as she was capable with the drug in her system. There are bruises around her wrist, but not the kind you'd find if she had been sober enough to really fight. No skin under her nails or foreign blood in her mouth. I'm betting it wasn't hard to subdue her. Actually, the most prominent marks on her body are because she was dragged AFTER she was already dead. Maybe hours later."

Clark swallowed and couldn't stop vivid images from popping into his mind. After a moment, he felt calm enough to ask, "How similar is this to the Heather Jordan murder?"

At the mention of the former prominent city official, King looked surprised. "Malone really is keeping you in the loop, huh?"

Clark didn't want to explain his solo research, desperately combing the Internet for information on every Gotham drowning he could find. "Uh, yeah," he lied.

King didn't look terribly convinced, but pressed on anyway. "With the Jordan case, she also had large doses of Live in her system, but she wasn't a user. The Live in her system was a bad batch, completely tainted. That level of toxicity? Her system simply shut down. And just like Carlson, Jordan was dead for hours before being dragged to the river. But the autopsy revealed that Jordan put up a good fight. From what I found, Jordan didn't let her attackers drug her easily."

"So you have DNA from the attackers?" Clark asked excitedly.

"We did," King answered shortly and Clark's excitement dissipated. King's tone of voice turned angry and it was the first hint of how passionate he could be about his job. "All our samples, all that evidence…it went missing before we could test any of it."

"Missing? Just like that? But…who has access to your labs? Who would want to sabotage your case?"

King opened his mouth, then shut it without giving an answer. "Sorry, Clark," he said at last, "but some opinions are best kept to yourself. This is one I'm going to keep. Nothing against you, but I like my life. And I like my job."

The anger in King's eyes was tempered by fear and Clark wanted to know what could frighten a man as confident and talented as King.

He left King's office feeling like he was swimming in information. Back in his crappy rental car, he thought himself in circles. Nighttime fell like a poorly-hung stage prop and the darkness all around made his thoughts darken even further.

Two women—both from very different walks of life—but murdered in almost identical ways. Clark found the revelation depressing, but he also found in it an idea of where to start looking.

After hours of aimless driving, he parked and gazed out the windshield at an unfamiliar brick building. Without intending to, he had driven himself to the office building that housed the Beautify Gotham Campaign.

Heather Jordan had worked here and Clark couldn't quiet the whisper in his mind that told him the reason for her death could be found here as well.

Clark exited the car, took a deep breath.

He had work to do.

To Be Continued...


	7. Chapter 7

Clark looked up at the building that housed the Beautify Gotham Campaign. The midnight sky was overcast and the stale breeze that wound its way past the brick building was chilled, more winter than spring.

The building looked innocuous enough. Yet, Heather Jordan had worked here everyday until someone had murdered her with a lethal dose of a new and potent drug called Live. Afterwards, she had been dragged to the Gotham River and left to rot and bloat in the water.

Now another body had surfaced, that of a dealer named Debbie Carlson who had died in a frighteningly similar fashion.

Jordan's high-profile position and shocking murder had the popular mayor of the city more involved with the case than he normally would be, Clark guessed. After all, Jordan had been the architect behind the cornerstone of his term as mayor: A crusade that had construction crews working long into the night to revitalize the aging and crumbling streets of Gotham, to make the city grand once again. One that had a mysterious cop with a shady record back on the streets after an extended suspension.

Bruce Wayne, he remembered with a shudder.

Clark didn't know what evils Wayne was responsible for, but it wasn't difficult to imagine him involved in all manner of dark deeds. In the lone encounter he'd had with the man, his presence had been overwhelming. He radiated darkness and hunger and a kind of dangerous intelligence that would burn anyone that stood in his way.

Clark had been intrigued and a little intimidated.

He blinked and shook his head fiercely.

Thoughts of Bruce Wayne were distracting him. He was here because he simply knew that the building might house answers to many of his questions. If Jordan's murder had any connection to her position, the answers were inside.

Clark didn't know how he was going to get into the building. It was government owned and operated, so he assumed that security was pretty tight. For the first time since starting the drive that brought him here, Clark wondered if winging it was really the way to go about this. Planning wasn't exactly his strong point, he guessed.

So he did a full circle around the gated perimeter as quickly as he could, squinting into the darkness, staring up and down at the tall windows and at every secured door. There were cameras at every approach and no good way over the tall gate that he could see. His best option seemed to double back around and enter the building through the elevator in the parking garage across the street. There appeared to be a tunnel that ran underground connecting the two structures. Maybe there was an easy way in.

Luck seemed to be on his side as he found the parking garage full of dark places to hide. Ducking behind cars, he neared the bank of elevators in a way he assumed was pretty stealthy. There was a guard station just a few feet in front of his destination. Mentally cursing government security, he looked left, then right. A soda bottle was at his feet. He shrugged: It always worked in the movies.

He tossed it as hard as he could and was surprised when it went fast and straight like a football across the parking garage. It hit a pretty red Mustang, which sat there as if in thought, and then emitted a terrible whirring siren.

Clark cringed at the sound. It hurt. His ears began throbbing dully.

"Don't start that again," he said under his breath as the guard raced away from his post and towards the car. He smacked his ear lightly, but that didn't make the pain lessen so he gave up. Then he ran as fast as he had in his entire life, breath held and lips pressed into a thin line.

Now it was just Clark and the elevator. "Come on, come on," he said stabbing the button over and over with his finger. There was no good place to hide if the guard turned around and caught him while investigating the Mustang.

At last, the elevator dinged and Clark darted inside, pressed his back flat to the wall. He hit the button that said 'Tunnel Access' and hoped that would do the trick. He only exhaled when the doors slid shut.

A minute later, he was slinking his way through a winding tunnel that he could only hope led into the secured building. He emerged in a posh looking area with shiny floors and chairs that looked very comfortable, even in the dark. In the center of the lobby was a life-sized granite sculpture of a child holding a man's hand before a stylized and sparkling version of the Gotham skyline. The two were pointing at the buildings in the distance with hopeful expressions on their stony faces. The base of the sculpture was adorned with a plaque that read "The Beautify Gotham Campaign" and Clark wanted to cheer. He was inside.

He didn't have time to celebrate long as there were mechanical whirring sounds that were like thunder to his ears: Cameras were rotating towards him from high above.

Of all the times for them to kick back in, he thought. Maybe it had something to do with adrenaline or…? He stopped wondering about it: There was no way to know because it was all too new. Focused once again, he wheeled around the corner, out of the range of the security cameras just in time. This was going to be tough, he figured.

Still, he moved quickly away from the lobby into a hallway that led into an office space with desks in cubicles arranged evenly. It was labyrinthine in the dim light. He hurried through the room until he came to another hallway. On the wall was the building directory, each floor clearly detailed.

"Okay," Clark said softly, "where am I?"

He ran his eyes over the diagram and learned that he was in the accounting office. He needed records.

"Two floors up," he said and then jogged down the hall to where the lights of an elevator gave the space an eerie cast.

He hit the button, grimaced when the elevator dinged and opened loudly on a mirrored interior, and then almost rushed in. He stopped when again he heard the whirr, whirr of a camera that he couldn't see. Then he pulled his foot back and let the door close.

More cameras, he realized, these ones hidden behind the glass. He'd have just been standing there with his face visible to the whole wide world. No good.

The stairs, he decided, were a much better idea.

He took them four at a time. There were cameras here, too, but they were spaced in such a way that he felt he could hurry past them as they panned from place to place.

Then he was on another dark floor. Beyond the hallway where Clark stood was another room filled with tables and filing cabinets. There were flashlight beams bouncing around, off the walls and ceilings and furniture. Clark's heart sped and it made breathing hard. Terror like this was new. It wasn't like being on location, filming with some hardened cop. This was being on your own without anyone there to watch your back.

He heard voices, two of them, both male. Whoever was in there, they could be part of the mystery.

He snuck carefully forward. With his back to the wall that ran beside the elevators, he eased forward and then leaned around the entrance.

There was a big, dangerous-looking man, all in black, flipping through folders with another, shorter man in black. They had skullcaps on, rolled up to their ears in a way that made Clark think of Jacques Cousteau. The way the taller man had his face turned kept Clark from identifying him, but there was something about the way he moved that sparked his memory. The other man was all in shadow, impossible to see.

The two men worked in perfect synchronization, opening folders, flipping through them carefully, and then returning them to the filing cabinets so they looked as if they had never been disturbed. The black gloves they wore must have been quite special because they acted as if they were hardly wearing gloves at all; not a single page was dropped or a corner crumpled.

The bigger of the two leaned over to show the other something but just as he was leaning over, his face became illuminated in the beam of his companion's flashlight. Clark gasped.

Bruce Wayne jerked his head towards where Clark was hiding and Clark just prayed he was fast enough as he whirled back behind the doorway, hoping he remained unseen.

His mind was chanting, "Oh my God, oh my God," over and over and he couldn't seem to get his breathing under control. Being caught snooping by Bruce Wayne once was probably a dumb idea. Being caught by him twice was probably dangerous or worse.

The few noises there had been behind him had stopped entirely. A hopeful part of him wanted to believe he was safe from discovery. The rest of him explained that now was probably the time to run for his life. He took a step forward, edging back along the wall. He made it two steps before a shadow fell across him.

"You," a dark, satin voice said exasperatedly. Clark's brain had enough time to notice that Bruce Wayne was still just as striking, even in breaking-and-entering black.

Then Clark, for lack of a better word, screamed, like a cheap horror movie actress and bolted for the door at the end of the hall. In fact, he was so panicked that he moved and kept moving even when Bruce Wayne called out, "Don't!" after him.

A red, pinpoint light in the corner of his eye made Clark wonder, but he was trying too hard to get away to really think about it. But the sudden bellow of alarms made him jump and cry out all over again. The alarm seemed to resound through the whole building, bounce off walls and pool in his ears.

Which were feeling pretty sensitive at the moment. He clamped his hands over them and gritted his teeth. He doubled over and clenched his jaw, tried to will the noise away.

"Move," he heard below the din and then there were arms around him from either side and he was being herded out of the building. He looked to his left and Bruce was there looking serious and maybe angry. To his right was the other man, a dark-haired handsome young man with eyes as blue as Bruce's. He wasn't frowning. Instead, a mischievous grin painted his face.

Before Clark could wonder about Bruce's companion, they were taking the stairs at a dangerous run and his ears were still aching, splitting his head with what felt like a thousand headaches. The alarm was the worst sound he'd ever heard.

They spiraled down the stairs, tore through a door into a hallway and he was breathless trying to keep up but he couldn't stop because Bruce was pulling on him, arm around his back steady and hard and warm even through his own long-sleeved shirt and Clark's clothing.

Before Clark could even figure what was going on, he was breathing fresh air, coughing when it hit his over-exerted lungs.

Bruce was speaking softly to the other man who mumbled something back and then asked, "Will he be okay?"

"Go," Bruce said and then there was a flurry of movement. Clark was staring at the pavement, wondered why it looked like it was spinning. "We have to keep moving," Bruce said, but it was a lost sound because Clark could still hear the sirens and there were even more out here than in there. The police, he realized. The alarms had summoned the police.

Then Bruce had a hand clamped around his wrist and was pulling him. "I can't hold you up anymore. I need you to run," he said over his shoulder.

So Clark ran, dogging Bruce's heels even though he felt like he was going to faint from the pain in his head and ears. They ran and ran and just kept running. Clark didn't know for how long, but what seemed like half an hour later, Bruce finally came to a stop. Clark didn't know the city at all and so this was just another dark, suspicious Gotham alley, one of about a million from what he had seen that night.

Bruce released his arm and the motion was like being tossed so that Clark landed with his back against a grimy alley wall.

"Are you all right?" Bruce asked but the noise was just mixed in with everything else. The city was flooding his ears.

Bruce Wayne's companion running, running, heartbeat strong in the distance, solitary but unafraid; pots clanking and children playing with dolls; men shouting with joy and anger; dogs barking blocks and blocks away; a woman singing and another screaming; cash registers clanging open and guns clicking; babies crying and a constant stream of fingers on keyboards and the sirens still blaring from so far away and…

"Hey, hey," Bruce said, shaking him by his shoulders, and then louder, "Hey!"

Clark squeezed his eyes shut, wished it all away.

"Hurts," he managed.

"Come on, snap out of it," Bruce said roughly.

So Clark focused on the hands on his shoulders, on the sound of Bruce's voice nearby. It took long moments for it all to fade. "I'm okay," he said softly.

Then there was a warm, gloveless finger at his ear. It shocked Clark's eyes open but Bruce was staring at his fingers.

"You're bleeding," he said simply and rubbed the red between his fingers.

Surprised, Clark touched first one ear, then the other. Both were dripping blood. "Jesus," he whispered. Then he looked into Bruce's eyes and then away as quickly as possible.

"The…alarms," he added, suddenly very afraid of what Bruce would think. "They were pretty loud."

"Hmmm," Bruce said, then crossed his arms. He didn't move from his position before Clark, just studied him. Clark was having a hard time figuring out what was going on. His ears and head just hurt too much for reasoning and quick thinking.

Finally, he realized there was something he probably needed to say. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.

"For?" Bruce drawled, still staring at him.

"Um, well, for setting off the alarm," Clark said.

To his surprise, Bruce barked a humorless laugh. Then he took the skullcap from his head and scratched agitatedly at his sweaty hair. Finally, he squinted up at Clark, hand still in his ink-black hair.

"You're sorry for the alarm?" He sighed then shook his head, dropped his hand. "Mr. Kent, do you know how many motion sensors hooked to alarms there are in that building?"

Clark didn't understand the question. If Bruce had plans to yell at him about being a klutz, he wished he'd get it over with. He shook his head and Bruce laughed softly under his breath again, a menacing sound.

"That building is riddled with alarms. Every few feet, every floor, every doorway. It took us hours to get to that floor without setting any off."

"Oh," Clark said, still not understanding.

"So what I want to know, Mr. Kent," Bruce bit off, "is how you didn't set off a single one until I spooked you."

Clark swallowed. That was impossible. "I didn't?" he asked.

"The alarms are pretty distinct, don't you think? We all would have noticed had you triggered one sooner."

"Um, well. Yeah," Clark agreed. That alarm had been terrible. It had kicked his hearing into high gear, worse than it had even been a few days ago, penetrating through walls and across distances. He hoped it went back to normal soon.

"Which means," Bruce said, tone angry, "that this is the second time you've gotten into a place with restricted access. What are you, Mr. Kent?"

Clark blinked slowly. "What…what does that mean?"

Bruce scoffed at him. "You're not really a director of photography, or whatever your resume says. You're not just some random film school reject from a reality television show. So what are you?"

Something goofy bubbled up in Clark. "You read my resume?" He almost grinned, but Bruce Wayne had taken another step forward, all danger and tension and Clark couldn't stop swallowing nervously.

"Answer me."

"I swear: I'm exactly what my resume says. It was just…just luck that I didn't trigger the alarms."

"That's some luck," Bruce said through his teeth, closer than ever, looking at Clark like he was trying to stare straight through him. "So what were you trying to do tonight? What were you looking for?"

Clark shook his head again, but that just hurt, so he stopped, tried to answer. "Probably the same thing you were. Something stinks with the murders and…and everything. The Beatify Gotham Campaign. I want to help. I know I can help."

"You keep saying that, but why should I believe you? Why do you care?" Bruce hissed.

"Because it's wrong," Clark blurted, but he knew it was true. Or part of the truth, anyway. "It's wrong that…that those girls are dead and that the people who try to solve the murders get…swept under the carpet. Like you."

Bruce lifted his hand to point straight at Clark. "Don't worry about me," he said. "Stay out of my business."

"No."

Bruce blinked at him, then frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Well, no," Clark said, feeling a strange surge of confidence. "I'm not going to quit. You're going to keep running into me like this." He added a cocky smile that came from he had no idea where. It was maybe a little shaky, but it was genuine.

"You're in way over your head, Mr. Kent."

"It's Clark."

Bruce's jaw flexed. "Don't start that again. You have no idea what I'm capable of. You have no idea who I am."

Clark wasn't arguing the point. Bruce Wayne was a mystery and possibly a deadly one. There was also something about him that made Clark want a little danger. Something about him made Clark think of the feeling he had in his dreams, of flying, of being high above the world, powerful.

"Then just tell me," Clark said. "Save me the Google search and just tell me. I…I want to know."

Clark almost yelped when Bruce lunged at him. Then all he could do was shudder when they were all but pressed together from chest to hip. Bruce's hands were planted against the brick wall on either side of Clark's head. "Go home," he growled. "Go back to Metropolis and your boring life. Leave me and my city alone. Do I make myself clear?"

But if Bruce was trying to be frightening, he was failing. The proximity was just making Clark…hot. His heart thundered and his breathing went shallow.

Bruce's eyes went wide when Clark just cupped the side of his face, hesitantly at first, and then strongly, feeling like electricity was coursing from Bruce's body to his own. He had no idea what he was doing.

Bruce's eyes fluttered, but didn't close. His heartbeat wasn't any steadier than Clark's. With what seemed like incredible force of will, Bruce stepped back. "I'll take you back to your motel. Let's go before the cops catch up."

With that, he turned on his heels and stalked out of the alley. Clark swallowed and then staggered after him. He wanted to ask, "Aren't you the cops?" but that seemed like a bad idea.

Now, more than ever, he was certain that he needed a vacation.

To Be Continued…


	8. Chapter 8

They had traveled in silence to the motel in a taxi with a driver who happily accepted the money Bruce tossed at him and began babbling on about how, "I never see you before. I don't know you. Me? I never see nothing, no?" as he tucked the cash into his jacket pocket.

"Many large, dangerous-looking men in black take this cab. Every day, dozens and dozens! No one will hear no thing from me, eh?"

Clark didn't want to think about the fact that it was Bruce who gave the driver the name and address of Clark's motel. At this point, he was pretty sure that Bruce could run faster than the speed of life, force the truth out of anyone, change shape, and bloody fly. And he didn't waste time, that was certain. He'd only been back on active duty for a few days and already he was out committing crimes.

If being off suspension meant breaking into buildings and rifling through government files, Clark wasn't surprised that Bruce had been suspended in the first place. Had Gordon called him back to work on the case *because* he operated under different rules than any other cop Clark had ever met?

The man in question sat as far away from Clark as possible, scooted close to the door. Clark just held his head in his hands and tried to ignore the feel of dried blood flaking in his ears.

To be cautious, they stopped several blocks before his hotel and then waited until the driver was well out of sight. "Come on," Bruce said and started walking at a speedy pace, unconcerned with Clark's ability—or inability—to keep up at the moment. Clark still felt strange, his head still aching from the intensity of the alarms.

Clark followed Bruce as he led the way around the long side of the building to the ugly forest green door that had been his welcome mat for over two weeks of fruitless work with the MCU.

"You know where I'm staying," Clark said at last as Bruce brought them to a halt.

Bruce just looked at him as if trying to see right through him. "We're not done talking about tonight, Clark."

Clark swallowed.

"Expect to hear from me again."

And Clark wanted to ask, "Is that a promise?" But just watched in stupid silence as Bruce disappeared back around the building, a black shape merging with the dark.

Then he unlocked the door, skulked inside and spent the next ten minutes scrubbing blood from his collar and cleaning out his ears. The night had been awful. Really, really awful.

Even if Bruce had called him 'Clark.'

::

Today the dreams had sound effects.

They started out as clashes of lighting that morphed midway to the sound of a gravely voice. It was easy to imagine that the voice hid secrets, collected them like trophies. Half awake, he knew who the voice belonged to. Things got hazier as he dropped deeper down into sleep.

And it was that voice that kicked the rest of the dream into insanity.

"—has been compromised. Fall back and regroup."

A metallic rattle, crunch of a hull breaching, of a shield fizzling away.

A swoosh and…yeah…the swoosh was from him. Flying. Some kind of microphone or transmitter at his mouth and ear.

And that voice again, like what a tunnel must sound like as it's being ripped into life: violent and deep. "Don't think I can't see your approach. Stay exactly where you are. Some things aren't worth dying for."

And that idea bothered him when he was awake, when he was just going through hours of footage and fiddling around with transcripts. In the dream, whoever he was, it left him incensed.

Because, he thought, of course some things are worth dying for. *Of course* they are.

"This is," he said. He felt his lungs expand, then deflate, felt the words rush out. No Kansas in the accent, just virility and confidence and chaos-stopping belief in the world and the decisions he made for it. Clark KNEW this was his voice. But this was also the voice of a hero so unlike him it shamed him. He couldn't reconcile the two.

"I said fall back!"

"No," he said and it was as simple as that: He was accustomed to being obeyed. That resonance was power and the ability to use it with caution and forethought.

That is, unless someone was in danger. Unless THIS someone was in danger.

"Exhale. Now."

Something thundered: A fist again and again, the rip of metal. He could almost feel the force of it against his knuckles. He finally punched through, but what his eyes saw in the dream was lost in shadows. Still, he wouldn't give up.

"Give me your hand!"

"Get out of here. Now. There's no time for your heroics."

"Stop fighting me on this. Come on!"

"Super—!"

And then the green started. Shards of green light of shards of green of…

He sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide and sweat dripping down his face. It was the most vivid dream yet, which meant they were getting worse. Clark wasn't sure if he could handle seeing more—worse—than this.

What was most frightening was the near-panicked concern he felt for the safety of the mysterious person in his dream. He knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the strange events of the night had caused the nightmare.

If only he knew why.

::

Day Fourteen

His dragging, dark-circled misery drew many a comment from his crew when he stumbled into the department two hours later than usual. Jimmy formed a cross with his fingers and held them up to ward Clark away.

"Be gone!" he said. "I refuse to catch anything!"

"I don't have a cold," Clark whined.

"Suuure. Then tell me why you look like you got punched."

"Bad dreams."

"Figured it had to be something. Me and Chuck tried to wake you up. I even tried calling." Jimmy shrugged and shoved his hands into his pocket. "We just decided to let you sleep. Fat lot of good it did you. Seriously: You look like death warmed over."

Clark let that comment slide, looked around the busy precinct and finally asked, "Where's Matches?"

Jimmy laughed. "Are you kidding? It's too early for him to stroll in." Clark had to admit that he was being foolishly optimistic if he expected Matches before noon.

"It's a shame, too," Jimmy said. "He's missing out on some juicy stuff."

Clark felt suddenly awake. "What happened?" he asked.

"Well, the homicide detectives don't really care, but every *other* detective won't shut up about it. Last night there as a break in! It's a pretty big deal."

Clark's eyes went wide and he cleared his throat. "Oh?" he tried.

"Yeah. They say the mayor's Beautify Gotham Campaign headquarters got hit last night. A rookie named Smith was talking about it before you came in. He says the cops are swarming all over the place and that none of the employees are being allowed inside. They're not even letting the mayor enter and it's technically his building."

Clark felt something like panic take up residence in his chest. Self-preservation cracked his jaw open so he could ask, "Are they saying who's responsible?"

"Nah. They were mums about that," Jimmy explained. "But they're looking for witnesses. They even had it on the news."

Clark was about to ask another question when he caught Gordon exiting his office and at some speed to grab Detective Bullock by the arm and spin him around. Then he heard them speaking in urgent tones. His hearing, it seemed, was doomed to stay freakish for quite a while.

"—says he was there. Passing by or something," Bullock was saying. "Called the hotline early this morning after he saw the number on the news. Really wants to help."

"Did he say *why* he was there at that time of night?"

"Nah, but he's coming up to make a statement."

"When?"

"Now."

"And you failed to mention this *before,* Detective?"

"Slipped my mind," Bullock said sheepishly. He had donut glaze stuck on his chubby cheek, tangled up with the stubble. Gordon examined the glaze and the man as if they were of equivalent intelligence.

"Well, he has bad timing," Gordon said, rubbing under his glasses at his squinting eyes. "Even if he is nobility."

No sooner had he spoken than a man appeared at the door leading to the heart of the MCU. Clark stared: Despite the fact that he was leaning on an elaborate cane, the man was tall and dignified. He was perhaps at the tail end of forty, creeping to fifty or maybe just past the threshold. He had a whipcord lean look with his dashing tweed jacket.

His brown whiskers were graying and bristly, covering most of his face. They were trimmed in that elaborate way some men prefer, but what makes it look as if their sideburns are merging with their mustaches.

The thing that stood out the most was a monocle on a fine gold chain covering his right eye.

He spoke over the noise of the room, undeniably British, like the entire movie 'Love Actually' crammed into one person: "I'm here to make a statement. Am I in the correct place?"

Gordon immediately raced forward. "I'm Commissioner Gordon. I just got word that you'd be coming in. Uh…*Sir*."

"Ah, yes. Sir Hemingford Gray," said the man, extending an elegant hand. "Good of you to meet me."

Detective Bullock was leaning against a nearby desk.

"What a fucking nance," he said, loudly.

Hemingford's kind face never faltered. He shook hands with Commissioner Gordon, who suddenly paused mid-shake. He gave the man a piercing, speculative glance. "Are you…?" he began, but then shook it off with a smile.

"Come in and we'll take your statement."

Clark was still staring: Hemingford Gray stood out like a rose in the desert. Nobody in Metropolis looked or dressed like this. Certainly no one in Gotham came close.

"I understand you're here in relation to the break-in at the Beautify Gotham Campaign Headquarters last night…?" Gordon asked.

Hemingford's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Yes. I am in the extraordinary position to give a 'tip,' as they say."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. We can use all the help we can get. The mayor wants this handled by the best and, well, my best guys aren't in today. My best guy's just plain late, as usual."

"Hey!" Bullock cried around the unlit cigar he'd just shoved in his mouth. "What are we, pond scum? That ain't fair."

"The truth never is," Gordon mumbled and started walking, arms waving as he spoke. "So since Malone's out, I guess the next best thing is for me to handle this myself."

"Malone?" Hemingford asked with polite interest as he passed Clark. His pale blue eyes drifted towards Clark, lingered. And it wasn't Clark's imagination when those eyes swept up and down his body. Their eyes caught for just a moment, Hemingford Smiled something like a shy, embarrassed smile, and then it was over, like it had never happened.

"…my best detective," Gordon was saying. "He normally works homicide, but when I spoke to him earlier today he said he has a feeling this break in is connected to a couple of murders."

It took a moment for Clark to realize he was missing something important. Then he sped after Gordon and Hemingford like puppy after a bone.

When Clark sidled up alongside him Gordon gave him a withering look. He didn't, however, try to stop him.

Inside Gordon's office, Hemingford wasted no time in relating his tale. Clark stood to one side, taking notes, while Hemingford slowly lowered his body into the chair across from Gordon. He rested his cane against the desk and sighed in pleasure at being seated.

"So, tell me what you saw last night," Gordon said. He took a slow sip from his coffee mug ("Why are you still talking?" it read and Clark was starting to wonder where he hid the damn things when he wasn't using them).

"I was out for a late night stroll," Hemingford said and Clark was struck with how pleasant his voice was, especially in comparison to Matches Malone's. Hemingford Gray's voice was like bathing under a waterfall in spring while Malone's was like swimming through sewage in the dead of winter, cold and filthy.

"The embassy put me in a hotel not too far from the government district and I was stretching my leg. These old injuries do act up, you know."

"Don't I ever," Gordon said and rubbed his shoulder unconsciously. He had a bewildered look on his face, as if he couldn't understand why Hemingford had a way of talking that made him feel like they were old chums from boarding school.

Gray continued: "I was just about to turn back when there was suddenly an ear-splitting noise from a building to my left. An alarm I believe."

Clark's eyes widened. He didn't know what to do but he *wanted* to scream: Hemingford Gray was lying.

The charming old fart was a lying liar who told lies.

The man simply hadn't been there last night. Clark had heard only one set of footsteps outside of the building, those belonging to Bruce Wayne's mysterious companion as he fled shortly before Clark and Bruce made their escape. There had been no one else nearby and Clark knew this for a fact because he had heard the entire city that night. Nothing had been secret from him. Saying as much would make everyone think he was crazy.

He studied Hemingford, tried to hear the lie in his voice, but everything he said sounded sincere.

"I was so startled that I froze in my tracks. Thanks to that, I was there to see a man in black exit the building at a run. His hands were empty and I didn't see a weapon."

"Just one?" Gordon asked, scratching his chin. "It seems a big enough job to involve two, maybe three."

"No, no," Hemingford said, shaking his head. "I only saw one man. Swift little devil."

Clark gaped at him. "That's not possible," he said without thinking.

Gordon's head swiveled his way. "Is there something you'd like to tell us, Mr. Kent?"

"Uh…" he began, but only sputtered and flushed red.

The rest of the interview went quietly with Clark biting his tongue—literally—to keep from shouting, "Why are you lying? Why are you covering for Bruce Wayne? For me?"

Gordon asked more questions and Hemingford answered them without a hiccup, smooth and so damn likeable. Even Clark was almost fooled and he *knew* the man was lying. He just didn't know why.

Fifteen minutes later and Gordon was escorting both the gently limping Hemingford and Clark from his office. Everyone in the room was pretending to be busy, but innumerable sets of curious eyes were peeking at the trio. Clark pushed the gawking crowd to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on willing Gordon to psychically realize that Hemingford Gray was a silver-tongued devil.

But Gordon gave Hemingford a friendly clap on the shoulder. "We've got your number, Sir Hemingford. We'll be in touch if we have any questions or if we need you to come on back in. I'll give your description of the perp to my officers."

"I have the utmost faith," Hemingford said, bracing both arms on the cane and leaning forward with a winning smile, "that this information is in capable hands."

Then Hemingford reached into his jacket, retrieved a pocket watch, made some quaint exclamation about the time, and then spoke with his eyes and head down as he carefully returned the watch to its hiding place. "Well then, that just leaves one more issue to resolve. Judging by your accent, Gotham is not your home any more than it is mine. Since you're a stranger here as well, can I assume you're free for dinner?"

There was a long moment when nobody spoke and silence reigned like a king. Then there was a kind of shifting, like the whole room was leaning in.

Clark looked left and right: Everyone was staring at him. Everyone but Hemingford Gray, of course who was still struggling with his watch.

"Um…who are you talking to?" Clark asked at last.

"Why you, of course, Mr. Kent," Hemingford said and finally lifted his eyes to catch Clark's. It was like being splashed with cool water.

By the coffee machine, Jimmy's lip was in danger of turning black from dragging through the dirt on the floor. Gordon's eyes went twice their normal size, which is to say that they were half a centimeter both ways for half a second.

Bullock shook his head. "I *knew* it he said. All those guys are nancy boys. You know, British guys."

Clark himself was bug-eyed and sputtering. "I…that is…are you being serious?"

Eyes serious in the genial face, Hemingford said plainly, "Mr. Kent, when you get to be my age, it's best to act on your impulses. For all I know, dinner with you may be the last pleasant experience of my life."

::

"Where *were* you?" Clark snapped at Malone the moment he saw him about an hour after Hemingford Gray's departure.

Malone looked wistful. "Got caught up at an internet café where this cute little Spanish senorita works. She lets me use her laptop, if you know what I mean," Malone said with a wink.

"Um, no," Clark said honestly.

"I mean she lets me use her laptop. Anyway, there was this video online. This lion…man, it was heartbreaking. These two guys, right, they go to Africa to find the lion they raised. Lion sees them, runs at them and you think its gonna eat them, but then it just starts hugging them and licking them like…wow…that's love, man. I cried like a bitch. Rosalita was very comforting. You've got to see it. Do you e-mail? I'll send it to you."

And Clark was feeling like all of this was Malone's fault. Malone and his stupid hugging lion. Had Malone been doing his job, Clark wouldn't have ended up agreeing to go on a date with a guy old enough to be his grandpa.

To Be Continued…


	9. Chapter 9

Clark didn't know what to wear on a date with an eccentric British knight. In between trying out various articles of clothing, he tested his hearing:

He vaguely heard the drip, drip, drip of water from the sink in the bathroom. Other than that, his ears were on the fritz again. He was torn between being glad and kind of missing the way it changed how he saw…er…*heard* the world.

He stopped in the middle of tying his tie and gave serious consideration to the fact that he had casually thought up the word 'date.'

He decided, in a very decisive way, that this was NOT a date. The word implied all kinds of things that just weren't true. For example, as Hemingford Gray was a man, the idea of this being a date would imply that Clark was gay or, at the least, bisexual.

Pansexual? What did that even entail? Aliens?

Trout?

He grimaced at himself in the mirror and started over when he realized he looked like a clown with the skinny end of the tie dangling down low to his belt while the big fat part barely made it past his first button.

Starting over, his mind kept working.

The gay thing was unlikely. He wanted, very much so, to convince Lois that the man of her dreams really was a clumsy, funny looking and kind of lame milquetoast with ugly glasses. She'd exclaim, "All along you've been right here and I never noticed how much I want to have steamy sex with you until today! Take me now!"

Then they could get married, have lots of funny looking and clumsy children and be happy forever and ever.

But that dream was a big, old, scabbed-over part of him that only slithered out to feel inadequate every few months or so. You know, like, when Lois was seen in the company of some rich, handsome, talented…jerk.

Nowadays he was realizing that there were maybe kind of sort of those parts of him that were maybe just a little bit sometimes thinking too much about Bruce Wayne. Of standing very close to Bruce Wayne in dark alleys, breathing the same air he breathed. Something stirred low in his belly.

So…bisexual, he decided.

Or, more than likely, just plain caught up in the magnetism that Bruce emitted like radioactive waves from Chernobyl.

He tugged on the knot, and sighed heavily, like a balloon deflating: His tie was backwards.

He frowned in concentration and tried yet again.

So, no, not a date one way or the other because Clark had an ulterior motive to agreeing to this nonsense: To figure out who Hemingford Gray was and why he felt the urge to lie about a robbery he hadn't seen a single bit of.

Maybe he got off on giving tips to cops, or maybe he was part of Bruce Wayne's crew of people who did illegal things for obscure reasons.

Innocent or criminal, Clark intended to figure out his game. If that meant hanging out in a very expensive restaurant on a Friday night over a classy meal while sharing anecdotes with another man who was probably going to pay for the whole thing, well, okay…he could do that.

The truth outweighed, he decided, questions of ones own sexuality. By big gay tons.

He tugged on the knot and smiled at his reflection: Perfect.

::

Not a date was his mantra from the minute his cab dropped him off, through meeting Hemingford at the door, and all the way to the very end of dinner.

Hemingford was not privy to this and acted, precisely, like a date was exactly what this was. Arm at Clark's elbow as they walked to their table kind of date behavior. And the restaurant was expensive. Of course.

As they made their way through the restaurant, a few Representatives caught Clark's eye as well as some of the New York Jet Set down for a night on the town in Gotham's famous shopping and entertainment districts. He all but gawked at a celebrity or two. For a city with the crime rate it had, Clark couldn't understand why anyone would chance a visit.

And Clark felt very unbalanced. Through the whole darn meal because Hemingford was not anything like he'd expected. Hemingford had been charming that morning at the police station, practically having Gordon eating out of his hand. Clark could see now that that had been one-tenth of the charm he was capable.

The most striking thing about Hemingford Gray was his lack of sarcasm and vanity. He had an openness about him that was stark in contrast to Malone's secretive humor. This, Clark decided, was also BAD because he felt like opening up in return.

And the fact that he was comparing the two men was WORSE than anything. What did that mean? He clamped down on the entire thought process before he threw Bruce Wayne into the equation.

Clark took a sip of wine, noticed that Hemingford wasn't touching his. The man had quite a story to tell, and maybe that was why he was the poster boy for teetotalism: He couldn't spare his mouth for anything else.

He launched into the whole thing quickly enough, even before appetizers, almost as if he wanted to get it out of the way. For what reason, Clark couldn't understand.

Sir Hemingford Gray explained in that undeniably British way of his that he was the last in a line of men who once carried the tile 'Lord,' but who had lost the land and title to a 'Wealthy sod of an Australian who I hope enjoys the fields that flood, the manor house that creaks, and the damp, unhealthy conditions.'

He still had strong connections to the village near the manor and to its people. "Many of my cousins are still there. And maybe an aunt or two. Three? Who can keep count of them all?"

The 'Sir' had been awarded to him many years ago for his philanthropic work on the international scene. "Being knighted isn't such great shakes," he said, lines standing out starkly around his eyes. "Nobody ever knows what to bloody call you."

In fact, he was, he said, in town as a diplomatic guest having once acted as a liaison for a committee geared towards international friendship. His village had briefly enjoyed sister status with Gotham and there was even a fountain in the posh shopping district known as 'Gotham Square' to commemorate the connection between the two tourist traps.

"Recently that bond has been, well, tenuous," Hemingford explained. "Gotham has had a major shift in leadership, a new direction. I read about it but never thought it would be so extensive. Everywhere I look something new is up. Did you notice the cranes down the street? The bulldozers? In fact, there has been some talk of getting rid of the fountain to build some new monstrosity."

For the first time, Hemingford's face was less than cheerful. He looked just a little dangerous.

"So that's why you're here? To fight for the fountain?" Clark asked, feeling like he needed his camcorder and better lighting for the shot; the whole restaurant was dimly lit, like some romantic setting in a movie.

Hemingford opened his mouth to speak, but before he could form words, he began coughing, a terrible, dry hack. He grabbed at his napkin, eyes watering. Clark darted from his seat, rushed across the table. "Are you okay? Hemingford? Sir?"

At last, deep, wheezing breaths came from Hemingford who lowered the napkin from his mouth and glanced at Clark's hand on his shoulder. He studied it, then looked up with a flustered expression. He licked his lips. "Um. Yes, well," he said at last. "I'm fine. Thank you for your concern."

Nervous and painfully aware of the eyes of the diners all around trained on them, Clark made it back to his chair. Hemingford still looked shaky, but he smiled at Clark and then said, "Good heavens, where was I?"

"Um…fountains," Clark answered. The whole episode had him on pins and needles. The cough had been terrible, like he was aiming to hack up both lungs as soon as possible.

"Ah, yes. My beloved fountain. You must see it sometime, maybe then you'll understand why it's worth fighting for. It's more than just a fountain," Hemingford answered. He leaned forward and scrutinized Clark, the eye behind the monocle paler, a little disquieting. "As someone from Metropolis, surely you must appreciate the value of a symbol."

Clark swallowed and blinked rapidly against the sudden reappearance in his mind of the dream from the night before where a red cape whipped like a flag as a powerful man sped towards danger.

"Well, yes," Clark said carefully, wishing the waiter hadn't taken the menu: They were really useful to hide behind. "We do appreciate…symbols."

Hemingford finally took a swallow of his wine, small and careful. His elaborate, winding tale was at an end and Clark almost wanted to applaud; it was quite a story. One that definitely could be confirmed or denied with one quick Internet search. It put a kink in his theory of Hemingford being one of Bruce Wayne's puppets: Why tell an elaborate lie if you didn't have the proof to back it up? Clark couldn't help it: The part of him that loved a mystery was already itching to type in the name of Hemingford's tiny village into a search engine to see what came of it.

Another violent fit of coughing interrupted the conversation just as their meals arrived and Clark had to fight not to dart up again. It was apparently a common thing for the older man just waved it away and took a long sip of water.

Clark decided that if he was going to try to investigate, he might as well push for the truth, the whole truth, yadda, yadda.

"Are you sick?" he asked softly. Hemingford looked up in surprise and then lowered his spoon.

"I don't mean to be rude, but—"

"Don't be silly, Mr. Kent. I'm flattered that you care. It does this old man a world of good." If he noticed Clark turn red, he ignored it.

He seemed to think. "In layman's terms, I have a weak constitution. All we Grays do, from my father all the way back to the first Lord Hemingford Gray. And had my father, God rest his soul, not sold off my birthright to a blasted Australian, and if I had had a son, he, too, would have inherited the land and the home and the title from me along with horrible health and a weak constitution. We don't tend to live very long, sadly."

Clark felt a laugh in his throat at the lively, humorous way Hemingford told what should have been a sad story, hand waving to and fro as he explained his tragic fate to die young.

"You don't have a son?"

"No," Hemingford said, smiling that wicked smile of his, spoon of delicious soup halfway to his mouth. His gaze fell hot and unblinking on Clark. "I think the reason why should be obvious."

Clark blushed to the roots of his hair and took a hasty swallow of wine. He coughed, hiccupped and then said. "Ahem. Right."

His eyes fell on the elegant cane the man carried where it was resting on the back of his chair. "I…I don't know how to ask this in a tactful way." He gestured at the cane and shrugged.

Hemingford's wise eyes sparkled. Clark thought of Dumbledore and realized that, yes, those darn books had ruined his life.

"Don't worry," Hemingford laughed. "If I were self-conscious about it—or embarrassed at all—I should say I would carry a much less fabulous, eye-catching cane."

Clark couldn't help it this time: He laughed. Hemingford smiled back at him.

"Yes, well. As for my leg, I was in an accident a few years ago. The details are unimportant, but my spine was shattered. I thought I'd never walk again. Luckily, I met a lovely American doctor who was something of a miracle worker. I can walk again, thanks to her, albeit, imperfectly. But beggars and horses and all that."

He waved his elegant hand dismissively and then settled it gently on the table.

Clark swallowed. He had never heard the words 'spine' and 'shattered' used so casually in the same sentence before.

"I'm so sorry about your legs."

"Like I said: I'm lucky," Hemingford intoned, somehow implying that he didn't feel like talking about any of this anymore. He rested his elbows on the table and then rested his chin on his interlaced fingers.

"But you ask a lot of questions, Mr. Kent. I assume it must be from working with the network. You're too used to interviewing, unaccustomed to being interviewed."

Clark shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Well, I do! Enough with all this. I'm not terrible interesting." He smiled one of his mysterious smiles and gave Clark a piercing look. "You, on the other hand, seem just full of mystery. Tell me everything, my dear Mr. Kent. Start at the beginning."

::

They were on to dessert by the time Clark took a break. His throat was dry.

He hadn't talked this much…ever, that he could recall. People at the station didn't want to hear it, Lois certainly didn't, and even Jimmy would rather talk than listen. He had, once again, the feeling that he'd been walking around like an invisible man, not even displacing air.

He wet his throat with a swallow of ice water and squinted to see Hemingford's reaction to what he knew was probably a story more boring than watching toads spawn.

Hemingford's sparkling smile wavered for the first time. It wavered right into frustrated disbelief. If he were an ill-humored man, Clark would have expected that expression to lead right into demands like, "Stop lying to me!"

Instead, Hemingford recovered with his usual smoothness and cleared his throat before repeating, "A farm in Kansas, you say?"

"Well, yeah. Um, I guess I kind of keep that to myself."

"Remarkably well," Hemingford said. "Besides the accent, you seem the polished gentleman."

Clark pushed his glasses up his face, thought about Matches picking on him for it, and resolved not to do it again. "Thanks, but, I mean, the accent is bad enough without broadcasting the fact all around town."

"And you've never been outside the country?" Hemingford shook his head like a man told to believe that shrimp flew.

"I divide my time between Metropolis and wherever we're filming. The farthest I've been is Los Angeles." Clark smirked and took another sip of wine. He wasn't sure if it was the wine or not, but Hemingford was easy to talk to, like floating downstream on warm waters. Just comfortable.

"Why leave for the big city at all? I enjoy the countryside! Besides, who will take care of your family farm when the worst happens?"

Clark frowned. He hadn't been back home in a long time. He got the feeling that maybe he wasn't welcome as much anymore. Things weren't necessarily comfortable there, as if he didn't belong. But even before that change, he'd known that farming wasn't the path for him. He may have been skilled at it, but his heart was in stories, in the truth, in the fast-paced, ever-changing life of the city.

"I," he began. He licked his lips, noticed Hemingford's eyes trained on the motion, and coughed to break the awkward moment. "I won't leave my folks high and dry. I'll be there for the farm if they need me, but for now I want to see where all this takes me. I like Metropolis."

"And Gotham?" Hemingford asked with a knowing glint to his pale eyes.

Clark laughed to cover his instant reaction, which was to stick his tongue out and say, "Ewww!"

Hemingford smiled as if he'd seen Clark do it anyway. "I take it you're not a member of the Gotham fanclub?"

Clark pushed his glasses up his nose while he rallied an answer and silently cursed himself for his failure. "Not exactly. I'm just ready to finish shooting this episode and get out of here. To go back home."

It was Hemingford who turned his head away from Clark then, strange color coming to his cheeks, what was visible of them beneath the mustache. "How is your progress? Will you be here much longer?"

Clark's eyebrows shot up because, well, yeah, part of him was already completing this conversation and was really unsure of how to deal with it. "I don't know. We're really behind schedule."

"I see," Hemingford almost whispered. He took a deep breath. "I'll be in town a little longer. A week, maybe a week and a half. I don't suppose you would, well." He coughed into his hand, an uncomfortable noise, not one of illness. "Never mind," he said at last. "I'm an old fool."

Hemingford hadn't looked this serious or dismayed all through dinner. He had been jovial and talkative and attentive. Now he looked crushed and Clark wanted to pat his hand and tell him to perk up. Something to bring that clever smile back.

Instead he sat there in dumb silence and did nothing.

The check came.

Hemingford paid and Clark didn't put up a fight about it. There seemed no reason for it.

Then they left the restaurant together without speaking. Hemingford kept his hand off of Clark's elbow and Clark didn't know what to think about any of it.

A car was waiting for them when they exited—sleek, black, and driven by a thin man with a thin mustache who said nothing as he held open the door of the car. When Clark looked questioningly at Hemingford, the other man just gestured to the car, a question and an offer all at once. Clark took the offered ride.

Clark gave the driver the address to his hotel as he ducked inside the beautiful car, silently relieved that he didn't know it as Bruce Wayne had. The man nodded briskly and then hurried in a strangely dignified way to the driver's seat.

Beside him through the entire trip, Hemingford was silent, staring out the window and sometimes fidgeting with his cane. This close, Clark was reminded that Hemingford was a much bigger guy than he seemed in his blandly colored but pricey jacket and vest.

They made it to Clark's motel and Clark embarrassedly instructed the driver to take the corner that led to the back of the seedy looking place. They pulled up in front of his now too-familiar, ugly door and Clark felt his cheeks flaming. Just once he wanted the network to put him up someplace nice.

He couldn't help remembering sneaking through the shadows with Bruce Wayne just one night before. A wicked part of his mind piped up that it was just wrong for him to be escorted home by a different man every night.

His mother had words for women like that, and he was sure she had other choice words for men like that, too.

He exited the car before the driver could embarrass him further by getting the door for him. "Um, goodnight," he tossed over his shoulder quickly at Hemingford, both feet already on the pavement. He heard his door slam as he was fumbling the key out of his pants.

Then there was another slam.

Then the car was pulling away. He turned his head and watched it, but refused to look over his shoulder.

"I'm very sorry," Hemingford said. He was standing closer than Clark had imagined.

Clark swallowed. "Why?"

"For being presumptuous. I just…wanted to say goodnight." He tapped his cane on the ground nervously. "The car is just around the corner. I promise. I'm behaving the perfect gentleman. Just for privacy, you see."

Clark smiled and shook his head. He sighed inwardly and told himself to just turn around and deal with, well, everything.

"Thank you for dinner. I had a nice time," he said and suddenly sympathized with all those girls in college who had said the same thing to him. He actually meant it, in an awkward, uncertain kind of way. Had they? Even to his own ears it sounded like a bad consolation prize, the pack of bubble gum when you failed to win the giant gorilla.

Hemingford winced. "Nice?" He laughed a sad excuse for a laugh. "I really am an old fool."

He suddenly straightened, smile falsely bright. "Well then, Mr. Kent, let me tell you that your company was the best I've had in a very long time. I shall always remember tonight fondly."

And then he turned and took his first limping step forward; away from Clark. To leave.

Something like panic worked its way through Clark, shot down to his toes and then back up to come out of his mouth as, "Wait!"

Hemingford did, a hopeful slant to his shoulders.

"Yes, dear boy?"

Clark didn't know what to say, hadn't expected to say anything at all. It was Hemingford who decided to get it over with. He limped back to Clark, stood before him for a heartbeat, maybe two, just long enough to radiate intent, lifted his right hand—long-fingered, perfectly manicured—placed it on Clark's cheek and then asked, "All right?" in a whisper.

"Um, yes," Clark said and couldn't have sounded more uncertain if he'd tried.

Hemingford didn't seem to mind.

He leaned forward, slowly, giving Clark plenty of time to change his mind, to say no. Only, he didn't and their lips met.

Clark suddenly remembered a stupid livejournal post he'd read about life virgins and knew he'd have to subtract a point:

Kissed another man, check.

Hemingford kissed him slowly, mouth closed and lips soft. He didn't demand anything at all and he wasn't forceful. Nothing about the kiss had the ring of something more explosive. Hemingford's whiskers scratched his skin and Clark imagined the entire thing as rather…pleasant.

And maybe just to see what it was like, Clark kissed back, just as hesitant, just as soft.

He *had* enjoyed talking to Hemingford. He *had* enjoyed dinner.

He *did* like him, but…

A minute passed and the older man pulled back, eyes sad. He looked away from Clark, across the lackluster view of the parking lot. "Ah," he said. "I see."

"W-what?" Clark asked. "Why did you stop?"

Still staring away into the distance, Hemingford shrugged, a barely there gesture. "I am sorry, dear boy. Had I known, I certainly wouldn't have pushed so hard. Let me just say that, whoever they are, they're very lucky."

Clark's mind felt stabbed through with panic and nerves. "What do you mean?"

Self-depreciating smile on his lined face, Hemingford answered, "I never had a chance. You have someone else on your mind."

Clark wanted to deny it, opened his mouth to do so and then just gave up. "That obvious, huh?"

Hemingford seemed to wince, but then schooled his features into their usual good-natured kindness.

"Well, yes. You seem distracted. Far away." He coughed into his hand and then looked at Clark with frankness. "I'm very practical, most days. But I have a jealous streak as long as the Thames. I'm afraid I…I'm not…" He laughed at his own ineloquence. "I simply don't want to share you."

Clark felt his mouth drop open. It was probably the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to him. Lois ignored him. And, well, Bruce just crowded him against walls and threatened him (which wasn't sexual at all, but the fact didn't stop Clark's mind from wandering).

But Hemingford tried to romance him, to make him feel wanted.

"It's not that I don't like you. You're a very nice guy," Clark tried and even he thought that sounded like the worst thing he'd ever said. "God, that came out awful," he mumbled.

"Indeed. If you say you just want to be friends, I will beat you with my cane."

Clark laughed and that was part of the problem: Hemingford made him laugh, seemed to care if he smiled or not, obviously liked talking to him. Secret agent for a corrupt cop or not, companionship was companionship. Good companionship was even better.

"Mr. Kent," Hemingford said then added more softly, "Clark, please understand: A person of your qualities is rare. Trust me: I've seen the world. All I can ask is—if you would do me the honor, that is. I mean to say. Ahem. Is there a chance, at all, that I can change your mind? Can I make you want me instead? Whoever they are, they don't deserve you. I can make you happy. I can try."

Bug-eyed disbelief met Hemingford's probing stare. Clark wasn't rare. He knew it himself. He had a lifetime of proof, but Hemingford sounded sincere, smitten, even a little desperate. And maybe just maybe Clark wanted to feel special. Just once.

"We could…try again," Clark offered and tried not to feel like an ass at the way Hemingford perked up, fought a boyish grin.

"I'd like that," Hemingford said.

And Clark wasn't lying, even if he wasn't telling the truth with a gusto when he answered, "Me too."

::

A short time later, things were being thrown.

A pricey but rather bland dinner jacket went one way and a cane went the other.

What looked like a beard landed in a dark corner where the lamplight didn't reach while a monocle was tossed away, rolling crookedly on the floor before disappearing from sight against the shiny hardwood of the study.

There was an angry earnestness to the force of it all.

A droll voice interrupted the tirade. "Ah. Well. I leave you alone for a moment and see that the fake beard has incurred your wrath once again."

"Not funny, Alfred," Bruce said as his butler retrieved the discarded items.

"Someone could have stepped on this. Like myself," Alfred said, brandishing the monocle with a look of displeasure on his long face. His little mustache twitched. "And really, Master Bruce, what did it ever do to you?"

A long, high and teasing whistle filled the room.

"Man, what crawled into your tweed and died?"

"Don't you start, too." Bruce crossed his arms and leaned against his solid desk, facing Alfred and Dick with a sour expression. He jabbed a finger to where Alfred was standing. "I had to put up with *him* the entire drive home. And what are you doing here?"

Dick laughed, long hair falling in his face in a way that shouldn't have been fetching, but was. For all his youth, his laughter made lines stand out on his face: A lifetime spent finding humor in everything, even pain.

"I kind of live here," Dick said, watching as Alfred retrieved the last few bits and pieces of Hemingford Gray.

"Yes, but what if you were seen?"

"I wasn't," Dick said. "I've told you before: I'm careful."

Bruce grunted, neither belief nor disbelief. It certainly didn't imply apology. Long minutes passed with the two men just staring at each other, maybe each of them waiting for the other to break. Alfred stood by, watching, somehow managing not to look silly holding a fake mustache.

"So…" Dick said, then cut himself off with a short laugh. He ruffled his own hair childishly. "Boy your eyes are creepy that color."

Bruce shrugged. "I'll take the contacts out."

"Good," Dick said shortly. He thought for a minute then said, "We got away, you know. No footage of any wrongdoing—no proof or fingerprints, nada—and you cover for us, what?, just in case with Hemingford Gray? Don't look at me like that, of *course* I found out. The guys talk." He shook his head. "There was no point in whipping him out."

Alfred nodded. "I agree. It seems unnecessary. Your getaway went remarkably well. You may not have recovered the information you needed, but you know where to look whereas before you were just guessing. And I missed my favorite show chauffeuring you to that overpriced restaurant. I had to tape it!"

"DVR, Alfred. Not tape."

"Whatever you say, young man."

After a deep breath, "I didn't expect the third degree when I got home," was what Bruce said in a near-growl. Alfred and Dick hesitated, maybe gauging how much further they could push this.

It was Dick who decided the waters were safe after a thoughtful silence. "Okay, well you got one. So what was the point of today? Where have you been? Alfred, where were you?"

Alfred's eyes only widened slightly at Dick's audacity. Then he joined Dick in waiting while Bruce's face remained stone. Finally, the stone cracked and Bruce said, "Clark Kent."

Dick screwed up his face. "The guy with the glasses who ruined our investigation?"

"He didn't—" Bruce began quickly enough that Alfred and Dick's eyebrows shot up. He covered well by finished with, "He's not what he seems."

Dick shrugged. "He seems like a nosy network guy out for a story. Not a bad guy, just…nosy. I didn't really talk to him, but Jason says he's cool."

Suddenly, Bruce couldn't stand to be still any longer. He moved to the front of his desk and began going through the drawers, looking for something.

"Jason says he's cool?" Bruce repeated coldly.

"Well, yeah," Dick said and looked helplessly at Alfred. "Are you telling me he's not?"

"I…don't know," Bruce said and Alfred almost dropped his armful in shock. He shared the expression with Dick and then they both looked suspiciously at Bruce.

"So, what, then?" Dick said. "You decided to go uncover the dark truth about this guy? Clark, right?"

When Bruce said nothing, Dick added, "You might as well tell me. I'll find out where you were one way or the other."

Bruce sighed gave up his search for whatever he was keeping busy with and rested his arms on the back of his chair. He didn't look at either of the other men. "We went to dinner," he said.

When Dick whirled on him accusingly, Alfred whistled a little tune and looked at the floor. Then Dick waved his arms a little spastically.

"Oookay," he said long and low. "Is this the new policy? Feed and be nice to people until they break? Why couldn't *you* wrangle answers out of him? Hang him upside down by his ankles over an alley and get it over with? Why did you need Hemingford Gray?"

"Bruce Wayne has tried talking to him before."

Dick rolled his eyes. "Oh, has *Bruce Wayne*? And how did that go?"

"He doesn't respond well to intimidation," Bruce said, shiftily.

"Who cares?" Dick said with a laugh. "He's just some guy, right? A damn lucky guy, but still just a guy. I mean, he is, isn't he?" he added when Bruce looked uncertain once again. Twice in one night was probably a record.

Alfred shook his head. "Master Dick, I think we can trust Master Bruce's senses by now. If he thinks this Clark Kent is worth investigating, we have to assume there's more to him than meets the eye. I, for one, find myself intrigued. Mr. Kent was the perfect gentleman in the car, even with such a fine specimen as the charming, well-groomed and exceptionally British (God save the Queen) Hemingford to act as temptation. Will there be a second date? Do you need a driver next time? I'm always free for romance and mystery." He wore an elfin, teasing expression and absentmindedly twirled the mustache in his fingers.

Bruce looked up just long enough to cut a glare at his butler.

"Like I said," he said at last, "he's not what he seems."

"So you think he's lying? About what? I mean, something pissed you off enough to start *throwing* things around here," Dick said and tapped Alfred on the shoulder to point out the pocket watch where it rested sadly in the shadows. Alfred nodded his head and silently retrieved the watch.

"A fine watch," he muttered. "Such a shame."

Bruce ran an agitated hand through his hair. "Lying? Not by half. That's the problem, Dick: He's *not* lying."

Dick laughed. "Now I'm lost. Completely lost. Explanation?"

"I couldn't find a single hole in his story. His record, his job history, everything on print about that man matched with what he said tonight. No tells, no twitches or shifty eyes. No sweating or stuttering. He's either the world's best liar—even better than me—or he doesn't know he's lying."

Dick shook his head. His youthful face shifted from confused to damn confused and then back again. "How is that possible?"

"I don't know. But he's not an ordinary man, no matter what he says. He's too *good* at what he does."

"Because of those alarms?" Dick said. "It could have been beginner's luck."

Bruce crossed his arms, looked away, a long stare that made him appear hard-edged and deep in thought. "It could have been, Dick. But it wasn't."

"How do you know?" Dick demanded, taking a confrontational step forward.

"Just a feeling."

Dick smirked. "Yeah, I'm getting that *feelings* have a lot to do with whatever's going on here."

Alfred once again had to fight not to drop things.

Dick didn't seem to care. "Okay," he said, ignoring the evil glare that Bruce shot his way.

"I have just GOT to meet this guy."

To Be Continued…


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Before a Live Studio Audience (Transcripts from an Unaired Episode of 'U.S. Cops'), Chapter 10

Author: Ren Makoto

Pairing: Clark/Matches, Clark/Hemingford, Clark/Bruce, etc., etc., and so forth. Kara, Dick Grayson, Scarecrow.

Warnings: Adult themes, language, not beta-read.

Summary: Cousins and comrades and Cranes (Oh, my). Clark's weekend off is spent in interesting ways. Banter, undercover cops, and coffee! Yay!

::

Saturday

Clark had only one think he absolutely had to do and that wasn't until lunchtime so his morning was free.

And *he* was free for the first time in weeks, back in the city he called home. His first impression after stepping of the train was: Metropolis is very sparkly.

His eyes were practically stinging from all the sparkle and it was great. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen anything sparkle. Well, Malone's big teeth and ugly glasses kinda sparkled. And Hemingford's eyes.

But Gotham didn't do sparkly. And like his city, certainly nothing about Bruce Wayne sparkled. So Clark soaked it all up, stored it for later. He'd need all the glittery goodness he could get to make it through another week once he went back to that damned city.

The train from Metropolis to Gotham was always so very short. It was unnerving to think that this much corruption was always just a quick jaunt away.

So, it was his first off day in forever and the list of things he could very well do read like this:

1) Go see Lois ('cause if I'm careful, I can be where she is and make it look like a coincidence. "Lois?! Wow, I didn't know you had coffee at this coffee shop EVERY Saturday at eleven and that your order a grande vanilla latte with banana nut bread every time unless they're out and then you curse and have a tantrum until they find or make you some. Not a freakin' clue.")

2) Hang out in his apartment, cleaning and being mopey

3) Go see his shrink about his stupid, stupid dreams

The shrink option won hands down, mainly because he was pretty sure Lois would know he was lying. Also, he wanted to get his head together. It had been a very strange week.

But once he was through the doors at the tasteful, downtown office, Clark was struck with the same feeling he managed to forget about in between sessions: Dr. Jonathan Crane made him nervous. Always and very.

He'd come via referral and Clark hated to disagree with his primary care physician. Still…

"Where do I know you from?" Clark asked. The couch threatened to swallow him whole and that was no small feat. He gave up on comfort, sat back up and placed his feet on the floor. "Did we…work together or something?

There was an idea in his head that Crane was maybe a bully at his school. Sure he was a ghostly stick now, but maybe he had been a big, round bruiser in elementary school. College?

The thin, pale-eyed man raised a perfect eyebrow. "Clark, we do this every time. You always ask and I always tell you: I've been your psychiatrist for five years now."

Clark's dubious expression was comical, like a monkey with a Rubik's Cube. "Have you?"

"Yes. I have a file on you the size of a dictionary. Fascinating stuff."

"Um. Yes." Clark adjusted his tie, now eyeing Dr. Crane with the expression he usually reserved for him: Vague discomfort mixed with inexplicable caution. "It's just, sometimes I think I met you before then. You're sure I don't know you from…somewhere else?"

Dr. Crane smiled that smile that had never put anyone at ease. Ever.

"Did you have somewhere in mind?"

Clark opened his mouth, scratched his head. Images of cornfields and orchards spun through his mind. A murder of midnight carrion crows pecking at the eyeballs of the dead.

The blink of an eye later and it was all over. He shrugged and gave a dorky laugh. "Nope. Never mind. Sorry about that."

"It's quite all right. You still apologize too much. We'll work on that another day." A weak smile made Crane look near death, one injection of formaldehyde shy of an open-casket viewing. "Well, this appointment was unexpected. Of course, but I'm ALWAYS willing to bump someone to talk to you, Clark."

"Gee. Thanks…?"

"Don't mention it." Crane shifted one long leg over the other and there was something so boneless about it that Clark squirmed. "So," he said, smiling his thin smile, "what's been bothering you lately? What new fear has crept its way into your soul, unbidden and yet so pervasive that it twists your waking life and corrupts your dreams?"

Clark's laugh was like a dying engine. "Right. Um. No. Well. Yes. It IS dreams. But I'm not sure about all that unbidden, corruption stuff, though."

"Dreams?" Crane asked, sitting forward slightly.

"Yes. Dreams."

"Scary dreams? Frightening dreams?"

"Um. Yes…?"

Crane's unnatural blue eyes widened and he flipped open the notepad that had been resting uselessly on his lap. "Do tell!" he said, the excited pulse at his neck suddenly visible.

"Well," Clark tried, casting his mind back. "There are two dreams. I have them both pretty regularly."

"Is one scary? Scarier than the other?"

"Yes."

"Start with that one."

"Okay," Clark said. His eyes darted to the door, anxious like Clint Eastwood in that movie, just hoping for a papier-mâché head to make it all better. Why did he still come to this guy? "The scary one has all this green light. Or maybe it's a green stone. And it's everywhere."

"The light or the stone?"

"Both. Maybe the green light comes from the green stone. Like the stone has some power. It's glowing…?"

Crane bit his lip. "I'm failing to see the frightening part here, Clark. Work with me. Can you cut to the part that makes you wake up screaming in terror? The good parts?"

Clark squirmed a little more, feeling stabbed through by those watery, pale eyes. "Yeah. Um. Well, the light hurts. The light from the rocks. And I'm falling."

"Ohhhh. Yes. Falling dreams are always bloody awful. They're even better if you hit." He gave Clark an appropriate span of time to jump in with, "Boy, aren't they ever! I hit every time! Guts everywhere! Head in fragments!" When Clark just looked marginally uncomfortable, Crane gave up hope, saying instead, "Falling dreams usually have to do with the dreamer feeling out of control. Is there something in your life you feel is beyond your ability to cope with? Influence?"

For a minute, blue, blue eyes flashed in his mind. And he thought he knew who they belonged to, until the handsome face was twisted by a cruel smirk and the perfect body was ruined with callused hands, that wretched suit.

"I guess," he said at last. "But what really scares me about the dream…okay, see this bad dream is directly connected to the good dream."

Crane all but threw his hands up in frustration. "Fine. If you feel like you simply MUST tell me this nonsense: What's the good dream?"

Clark felt another awkward laugh clawing its way up his esophagus. "Sorry, Dr. Crane. I think I'll keep that one to myself. You'll just make fun of me."

Crane made a show of flipping through his notepad. "You mean I'll make fun of you because of ONE little dream when I have five years worth of awkward sex stories, inferiority complexes and social ineptitudes to choose from? You really don't know me very well, Clark. You wound me. Please, share your story. Oh, please do. I can't wait to add it to your file."

"I can fly," Clark ground out, headache forming.

Crickets chirped. Stars in the heavens died. Several species went extinct.

Finally, Crane spoke. "Excuse me?"

"In the dream. I can fly."

"And it scares you?" That little eyebrow couldn't get any higher.

"No!" Clark said, cheeks flushing. "Not at all. I feel alive. Free. The sky is where I belong."

"Uh-hmmm," Crane said, writing something with marked deliberateness. Clark had the fear that it was something like, "Institutionalize immediately. Throw away key."

Pressing on like a determined soldier, weary from the trenches, Clark stumbled through his explanation. "That's why the dream with the green glow is so scary. It's because I'm falling, but as I'm falling I KNOW I can fly but that it's not working for whatever reason. I know I should be able to just…"

Take off, soar, coast on the air, feel weightless and alive and right and whole, he didn't say.

Clark rubbed at his face heavily, under his glasses, digging deep at his temples. "Okay, that's my story. What does it all mean?"

Dr. Crane lowered his pencil, shifted his own glasses with practiced care. "I think that the dream is trying to tell you something. Something about yourself that you've been hiding."

Clark peeked through his fingers, frowned. "Something I've been hiding?"

Crane nodded slowly, suddenly a wise sage handing out prophesies. "I think that there's more to you than even you know. This dream, it's trying to tell you that, underneath all that we can see—underneath what even you can see—there is a man waiting to be noticed, someone tired of being ignored."

Clark swallowed and felt something inside him swell, like a balloon was expanding in his soul. Something about this felt right, felt true.

"Maybe you feel it too, the presence of this man hidden inside you. He's someone who will not go away, will not be quieted."

"Who is he?" Clark asked, almost breathless with anticipation. One more swift shift of glasses and Crane leaned forward. "Clark, have you ever considered the possibility that you're gay?"

The balloon burst, never to inflate again. All that swelling confidence became a circus balloon giraffe tattered by the sticky Keds and Nikes of spoiled children.

"Wha—?" Clark sputtered.

"It's a reasonable question." Again, the notepad was consulted. "I mean…you sure do pick unobtainable women. They're always WAY out of your league. It's like you're doing it on purpose so that you have a valid excuse to turn to a man instead." Flip, flip, flip went the notepad. Clark wondered how many times Lois' name was scribbled in dark, heavy letters.

"Well, Doc, thanks for the chat."

"But we still have forty-five minutes left." Crane's sharp smile made him look like the bad guy in those free comics they gave to kids, the ones warning them to stay away from drugs and drug dealers.

"Right. Um. I'm just gonna…swallow the cost of the rest of the session and just…go. Now."

The, "Wait, come back!" that chased him from the room was enough to make him shudder again.

Dr. Crane was a strange, terrifying little man.

::

At loose ends, he elected to kill all the time he'd found by running from his mental health provider and did a crap job at it. Window shopping only vaguely wounded time, he found. Feeding the birds kind of gave time a headache and an ulcer.

Finally, it was a quarter to noon and he wandered towards the meeting place.

"Hey, Clark! Good to see you! How are you?" Kara beamed. Her hug was surprisingly strong and her hair was like gold in the ubiquitous Metropolis sunlight.

As always, his cousin looked lovely and fresh. A tech geek at the station, Kara had always been eager to help Clark. When he asked her why she bent over backwards to help, she said it was because Clark had always taken care of her. She owed him, she said.

And Kara had long since grown accustomed to the ins and outs of the fast paced broadcasting world, but it hadn't always been that way.

Being new at the station wasn't easy and Clark remembered what it had been like when he first started. The MBS building was massive and confusing for starters. And the hierarchies were impossible to figure out without a guiding hand. Lois had been that for him; he had wanted to be the kinder, gentler version for Kara. As she was always there when he needed her, he guessed he must have done something right.

"Well, I've been in Gotham for weeks, so I'm as good as can be expected," Clark said.

"That bad, huh?" she asked as she settled across from him at the charming café down the street from the MBS skyscraper. From here, he could see the gargantuan golden globe atop it circling, circling.

If 'That bad' could explain the scary yet intriguing intensity of Bruce Wayne, the infuriating—possibly criminal—lazy stupidity of Matches Malone, the horror of the autopsy and the strange murders, his 'date' with Hemingford and the kiss thereafter…

Well then, yes, it was 'That bad.'

Instead of launching into an explanation, Clark said. "Yes. Yes, it's that bad."

Kara flashed a smile, ordered a coffee and a water when the waiter stopped by. They skinny kid gazed at her even while he took Clark's order. Kara either didn't notice him drooling over her, or didn't care.

"Hang in there, Clark," she said brightly after the disappointed waiter skulked off. "When you hit rock bottom, things can only look up. Isn't that what you always told me?"

"I guess, but you never actually hit 'rock bottom.' I've been spitting out gravel for days now. But thanks, anyway," he managed and pushed his glasses up his nose. "So, actually, I need a favor."

"Name it," she said on a yawn. That was the most amazing thing about Kara. She didn't care if it was difficult or even dangerous. She wanted to help. Not just Clark, but everyone she met. Clark wondered what it took for a girl to become so brave, so determined to prove herself.

"I need you to run some plates for me. Under the radar."

Kara's eyebrows lifted. "You DO know that you only follow cops around for the show, right? That you're not actually a cop?"

Clark pouted, tried not to pout and only made it worse. "I know, I know. But…this is important. I've got a hunch."

Her eyebrows couldn't get any higher. "A hunch? Clark, when was the last time you had a hunch?"

"I've maybe never had a hunch."

"Yeah, I figured. Oh, there's just GOT to be a story here and I'm not doing a single thing for you until you fill me in!"

With a little prodding, Clark told her. He started at the beginning. By the time he got to Hemingford Gray, he was blushing and stuttering, but he finished, grateful to have the squirmy, uncomfortable bits done with. He left out his weird hearing. The last thing he wanted was for Kara to think he was a freak.

"But that doesn't make any sense," Kara said, taking a sip of her coffee. "If Hemingford really is working for Bruce Wayne, then why would he lie to YOU when Wayne must have told HIM that you were there to witness the break-in? Why try a lie out on the one other guy who knows the truth?"

Clark shook his head. "I can't explain it. But I don't think the lie was for me: I just so happened to be there. I think maybe Hemingford was really just lying to cover for Bruce Wayne to Commissioner Gordon and the others, in case someone decided to put two and two together. I mean, Wayne gets taken off suspension and then the building of the guy responsible for the suspension gets vandalized? I'd suspect Bruce right away."

"But then why isn't he worried about you ratting him out?"

Clark fidgeted with his coffee cup and shrugged. "I guess he knows that I'll incriminate myself if I call him on the lie." At Kara's doubt-filled expression, he added, "It's all a bit weird, I know, but this is my life these days."

"Okay, so this is really all very shocking. You're breaking and entering, first of all. And you're acting like it's not a big deal, second of all. And you're kissing British nobility?"

"Um. Former."

"Whatever! He kissed you."

Rubbing his face heavily, Clark nodded, an embarrassed, awkward motion. "Uh, yeah."

"And something about the kiss gave you a 'hunch'?"

Clark shook his head. "No. Um. Not the kiss. It was after all that. See, Hemingford had this butler—"

Kara gawked at him. "Wow. Kinky."

"Kara! Nothing happened. With him or his butler!"

"Suuuure."

"Are you going to listen or what?"

She smiled a mischievous smile behind her coffee mug. "All ears!"

He glared at her, but then began again. "His butler dropped us off at my hotel."

Kara was biting the inside of her mouth, he could just tell. All manner of filthy jokes were circling around in her clever little brain, dying to come out.

"Uh-huh," was all she let escape, but even that sound was suggestive and naughty.

"And I got a good look at his license plates and I started thinking about all the cars."

"Hemingford's?"

"Well, Malone's, actually." Clark remembered the almost sleepless night he'd had, thinking about the kiss and what it meant and didn't. Then his eyes had drifted shut and there behind his eyes had been a perfect picture of Hemingford's plates. Then he'd seen the plates on Malone's sleek black cars, all of them together, side by side like a puzzle he just needed the final piece to. He'd jerked awake, stared dumbly into the dark. "Cars," he'd muttered.

Kara drummed her fingers on the table. "So, let me get this straight: You kiss Hemingford and it makes you think of another man?"

"No!" Clark blurted and several people at nearby tables turned to stare at them. He lowered his voice and calmed his tone. "Malone drives all these fabulous cars, and I think they're stolen. He has an Aston Martin."

"Ohhh. Shiny. And what does this have to do with Hemingford? Or Bruce?"

Clark scrunched his face up in concentration as he explained, "I don't know. Really, I just…have a feeling. Something's not right and this might be the first step to finding out what's going on. And if Hemingford's up to no good…"

"What, you want to have him arrested? That kiss must have been rubbish."

"It has nothing to do with the kiss!" he hissed as quietly as possible. "Just, maybe there's a connection between these guys, you know? Something bad."

Kara looked at him speculatively. "Well, cases have been made on less, but it's still pretty flimsy. And Malone's a cop, so that's a problem," Kara offered with a smirk. "When you run the plates on a cop's car, the cop finds out two minutes later. Law enforcement, gotta love it."

"Can you do it without them finding out?"

"Hmmm," Kara said. "I think I know a trick or two. What are the numbers?"

Clear as day, Clark could see the cars in his mind, the beautiful Aston Martin and the sleek Lamborghini as well as Hemingford's subdued town car. He rambled off the make, model and plate of each car.

"Wow," said Kara, grabbing a napkin off the table and a sparkly pink pen from her purse. "That's more than enough information. Your memory is scary sometimes, Clark."

My memory and my hearing, he thought. And Clark was hoping the surprises would stop soon.

He made a non-committal noise to Kara's statement. "These are some nice cars," she said. "How hard could they be to find?"

"This won't get you in trouble, will it?" Clark asked.

"If they catch me? Yes." She gave an impish laugh and winked. "But they have to catch me first."

::

Day Fifteen

Face buried in his hands, Clark sat at Bruce's desk doing nothing. His state-of-the-art, tiny, feature-filled, expensive, and ultimately useless camera was forgotten on the desk beside him. He groaned.

He'd enjoyed his time in Metropolis, getting away from this project and the failure it was turning out to be. But now that he was back in Gotham, he felt out of place once again. Malone was a no-show and Jimmy had thrown his hands into the air in frustration an hour ago and said, "I'm going to go get drunk."

"It's eleven in the morning!" Clark had protested.

"Yes," Jimmy had agreed simply and stormed out of the MCU. He'd taken Clark's entire crew with him. They'd tried their best to get him to go along, but some sick sense of obligation to his job kept him from going along. They wouldn't put up with this much longer and he wondered if Jimmy wasn't two steps away from asking Lois to pull the plug on the whole thing.

Two hours later, and he was regretting his responsible streak. Fifteen days of filming and they had nothing to show for it and a bar stool was sounding pretty nice.

"Whoa, looks like you're having a bad day."

The voice was crisp, educated, and just a little playful.

Clark looked up and just stared. In full Gotham Cop Blue, the voice belonged to a handsome, clean-cut young man. Clark guessed he was about 22 or 23. It was easy to tell he'd never make it past the 5'10" he filled with his leanly muscled frame. Strangely familiar blue eyes stared down at him.

"H-have we met?" Clark tried. It was on the edge of his mind, like having peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth. If he could just tongue it down, he could swallow it, taste the awesome taste of Peter Pan Crunchy and feel satisfied, knowing who this guy was.

He thought about that mental trail one more time. Crunchy peanut butter. Tongues. That sparked something. This kid…

Tongues…

Something about tongues…

"Nah! Try that line on someone else!" the cop answered back with a laugh and it knocked Clark back to reality. Then he stuck out a hand. "Dick Grayson. Officer Dick Grayson. Just call me Dick." He gave a laugh and a shrug like he couldn't believe he was saying what he was saying.

He had a firm, friendly handshake and a megawatt smile to go with it.

"Oh. Clark Kent. I'm with the—"

"Oh, I *know* who you are," Dick said with that same easy manner. He crossed his arms, hitched one hip onto the desk and looked so damn comfortable on Bruce Wayne's desk that Clark was taken aback.

"H-how?"

"Bruce told me."

He figured that opening and closing his mouth like a fish for long moments might be attractive. Somewhere. "Um…I'm confused," Clark admitted at last. "I've only met Detective Wayne once. Well…twice. Kinda, and…"

With a jerk of his thumb, Dick indicated the desk where Clark was sitting. "Be that as it may, it seems like you made quite an impression on my dad."

If Clark had been drinking coffee, it would have been a spit-take. "WHAT?" He waved his hand around, searching for something to make the world make sense. "He's your father?"

"Well, yeah."

And the floor fell out of Clark's world. "You mean…he raised you and you're not dark and scary?"

That got a laugh so loud out of Dick that the entire floor of the MCU turned to stare at them. Clark looked nervously around the room and then back at the young cop whose eyes were watering.

He wiped at the tears, but more just kept coming. "Whoo, hooo…That's a good one."

He let the last laugh out with a high-pitched exhale. "Wow, thanks for that, Clark. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. So my dad's dark and scary?"

"I'm sorry, that just slipped out," Clark said with a wince.

"No, no, it's okay. It's always neat to see someone else's perspective on the guy. I've known him a long, long time, you know. Everybody sees him a different way. It's like he's a million different people," Dick said with a wink like it was all too funny.

Clark felt like the joke was beyond him. "So, um, I've never seen you around the station before."

"You around that much?" Dick asked.

"Um, yeah. When we're not filming. When Detective Malone's not around."

Dick leaned in a little closer, lowered his voice. "And he's never around?"

Clark took a deep breath. "No. But neither are you."

Another infectious smiles pulled at the corner of Dick's mouth. "Busy, busy, busy," he said. "Gordon's a slave driver. Have you seen the coffee cups? He *enjoys* making life difficult. There are words for people like him."

Clark smirked and secretly agreed. "Well, be that as it may, you might be busy, but I think Malone just sleeps. A lot."

"With everything, I think," Dick said and waggled his eyebrows. "The man's a beast."

Clark felt a laugh he hadn't known was inside him swirling up. "So you know Detective Malone really well, too?"

"He was my training officer," Dick said with a shrug. "Your next episode should be about nepotism in the Gotham Police Department. You'd win an Emmy."

And Clark, he couldn't really help it: He liked Dick Grayson. The guy thought everything was a joke and not in a cruel, vicious way like maybe Matches Malone. Dick just didn't have a mean bone in his body. Clark couldn't figure how Malone and Bruce could be such influential figures in Dick's life without causing lasting damage. Dick Grayson was a walking talking miracle.

"Well, speaking of the show, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions on film?" He waved at the camera on the desk and when Dick frowned felt like he'd kicked a puppy or something.

"Hmm, well," Dick said and scratched at his smooth chin. "I'd love to help you there, but I can't. I mean, I really, really can't."

"Oh," Clark said with regret in his voice. "That's okay. It's just, we don't have much footage. And a first person account on your dad would be great. I mean, nobody wants to talk about Detective Wayne because he's terrifying and nobody has anything good to say about Malone. I mean, they respect him, but they think he's a jerk, you know? He kinda is, actually. And it would be nice to have a fresh perspective on both of them. I've never actually gotten Wayne on film and I'm starting to think he's a ninja or something. Or maybe a vampire because I've never seen him during the day, either."

Clark knew he was babbling, he just didn't know how to make it stop. Dick's expression was one of concerted effort not to laugh very loudly.

"Wow. Matches was right: You're a comedian."

Clark sat forward. "But I thought you heard about me from Detective Wayne."

Dick looked at him sharply. "Listen, I talk to both of them, don't I? They're partners. And they talk to each other. Small world."

"It is, isn't it?" The Jersey accent left no doubts as to the owner of the voice.

Clark looked over his shoulder while Dick sprung to his feet and came to attention. His handsome face looked suddenly nervous. "Sir," he said.

"Officer Grayson, what are you doing here? In uniform? What the hell are you thinking?" His eyes drifted to Clark, then back to Dick who swallowed heavily.

"Nobody saw me," he said.

Malone's eyes narrowed. "You can prove that? You know the name of every person that passes by this fucking building?"

"Nobody recognizes me like this and—"

"Again: How do you know? One slip is all it takes."

"I just wanted to—"

"To what, Officer?"

Clark listened to the exchange with confusion. Why was Malone upset with Dick?

The young officer lowered his head. "I just wanted to say hi. I wanted to meet Clark." He sounded strangely young right then, like a scolded kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then, boldly, he raised his eyes again. "And I wanted to see you. ME. *I* wanted to see *you*." His eyes flicked up and down Malone's horrible green suit and he took another deep breath. "I guess I picked the wrong day."

He turned to Clark abruptly. "It really was good to meet you, Mr. Kent. Keep on doing whatever you're doing."

"Wha—?" Clark tried, shaking his head slowly. "I don't…"

"Never mind. Just…it's good. What you are. Whatever you are. It shakes things up."

Malone's posture went rigid. Dick turned his cool blue eyes on Malone and gave him a bruised look. He held it as he said, "Some people need a little spice in their lives."

And with that, he spun on his shiny heels and left as quickly and silently as he'd come.

"Change before you leave!" Malone shouted after him. Dick's back stiffened, but he just kept walking.

He watched Dick leave with some sadness. He seemed like a good guy and it would have been nice to talk to him a little longer. Then he turned his attention to Malone. "What just happened?"

Malone just sighed. He mumbled something unintelligible, and then his posture shifted to something Clark would call resigned. "That camera of yours off? No tape recording or nothing?"

Clark held up his hands, surrender style. "Everything off the record. I promise."

"Walk with me."

So they walked. It was a winding, seemingly endless route they took through the old building, Malone never speaking.

They were in a long, abandoned hallway in a part of the precinct that Clark had never seen before when Malone finally decided to talk. He didn't stop walking, as if the motion kept him from analyzing what he probably saw as a mistake: Telling Clark anything important at all.

When they reached the end of the corridor, he just spun around and started back the other way. Clark followed eagerly. His patience paid off when Malone spoke.

"Officer Grayson is a good cop. I should know: I trained him." There was real pride in his voice and Clark thought that was oddly charming. Malone continued, "Only…he's too good. He's too good and maybe I pushed him into something too soon. I just…he said he could do it and I believed him."

Clark shook his head. "What?"

"He's undercover. Deep cover. Has been for almost ten months now."

Understanding hit Clark like Malone's accent that first day. "You're worried that his identity was compromised by his coming to the station today?"

"In uniform, for God's sake!" Malone cried. He made the Sign of the Cross and it was so small and quick that he could have been shooing a fly instead. "What if somebody saw him? A lot is riding on this."

"What's he investigating?"

"Can't believe I'm telling you this, but there's a nasty new drug on the street," Malone said and shook his head. "Narcs want to know where it's coming from, how it's getting on the street. They've got nothing. But Dick's on to something. I know he's close."

Clark suddenly remembered Gavin King telling him about Live, the terrible drug found in both drowning victims' blood streams. Could this be what Dick Grayson was investigating? Was Dick trying to help Matches solve the case?

They turned and went back down the hall. Mind awhirl, Clark asked, "So, what's his cover?"

Malone looked at him, step unfaltering. "You don't know? Really? Not at all?"

Clark floundered. Sure, something about Grayson seemed familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. "No. Not a clue."

"Funny. Dick will get a kick out of this and I guess I owe him an apology." He slapped Clark on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Kent, your lack of guile has made you gullible."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind."

"Um. Does that mean you're not going to tell me?"

"Honest, Kent, you're the greatest. Yes, that means I'm not going to tell you."

They turned again, keeping pace; strides as different as night and day. Malone kind of loped and Clark, well, he figured there was nothing about his walk worth mentioning. He just walked. Malone didn't speak again until they were halfway down the hall again.

"So, everyone's telling me you made a love connection."

Clark blushed and cursed himself for it. "Um. Me and Sir Hemingford went out. Talked. We had a nice dinner."

"So I hear," Malone said, lines at his eyes crinkling. Even his mustache seemed to leer.

"Nothing happened."

"Sure," Malone said.

"Really."

"Uh-huh."

"He's nice. A gentleman."

"Of course," Malone said. "Let me know when he proposes."

Clark sputtered. "How is this any of your business?"

"It's not, I guess," Malone said, "but it could be if you'd let me make a little money off your sweet ass."

Clark almost tripped and fell on air. "Wha—?" he demanded through a cough.

"I mean, you'd clean up nice. Lose the glasses, show a little sternum bush. They boys say this Gray guy is loaded. Maybe we could charge by the night. The hour? How long do you think you could—"

"We are not having this conversation," Clark said. He broke stride and stomped away, heading towards the corner that would take him back to the front of the MCU.

"Hey!" Malone's voice chased him down the hall. "I was just kidding. Well, kinda kidding. Okay, I wasn't really kidding, but can you blame a guy for trying?"

"Can it, Malone!" Clark shouted back.

"Okay, well, fine then! Screw you, Kent! Just because you won't put out, doesn't mean we all have to suffer for it!"

"I'm not humoring that with a reply!"

"Hah! You just did!"

"Shut up!"

"Only if you put up!"

Clark disappeared around the corner and Malone chuckled. "Kent, Kent, Kent. You are a fucking miracle," he said, shaking his head.

Then he followed after him, a lazy stride some called a lope.

To Be Continued…


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Before a Live Studio Audience (Transcripts from an Unaired Episode of "U.S. Cops"), Chapter 11

Author: Ren Makoto (harmless_one, Mostly Harmless III)

Pairings/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Clark/Matches, Clark/Hemingford. Gordon, Bullock, Kara, Lois, Jimmy, Dick

Warnings: Adult themes, adult content, strong language. Not beta-read and my spelling and grammar are worse than ever! Woot! The semi-colon has never been so abused.

Chapter Summary: Bruce Wayne really likes dark private places where he can accost Clark Kent. To ask him for his help, of course. He just loooooves asking a wet, shirtless, steamy Clark for help in dark, cramped spaces…It's all perfectly innocent. Honestly. Ahem. Right.

* * *

Story Summary:

Clark Kent has been sent to Gotham to follow Matches Malone for a reality television show. But he's getting wrapped up in a murder case that seems connected to Gotham's popular new mayor and a deadly drug called Live. Solving this case means Clark has to deal with three mysterious men who are all maybe in cahoots. Throw in the fact that Clark is developing strange abilities—coinciding with the unexplained disappearance of Superman—and things get really complicated.

In the last chapter, Clark asked his cousin Kara for help in tracking down Matches Malone and Hemingford Gray's license plate numbers. He has a hunch that the information on the cars will give him much needed answers. He also met Officer Dick Grayson, Bruce's son, and was surprised to learn that Dick is working under cover in the drug cartel.

Our story continues…

* * *

Monday, Day 16

Clark's head was still filled with Kara and Dr. Crane and Dick Grayson by the time he made it back to his new home away from home: Gotham's worst motel.

Clark struggled with the door for a moment, and the reward for his effort was his stale and smoky smelling room. He flipped on the little light nearest the door; it barely lit the space; he knew the motel staff put dim bulbs in deliberately because darkness could do more for the stains and grime of the room than the lazy cleaning crew. So, yes: his glum and beaten down motel room utterly failed to make him feel any better about being back in Gotham.

Despite an early morning shower, he felt suddenly grimy. One day back in Gotham was enough to make anybody feel grimy, Clark reasoned. He stood in the center of the empty room for a minute, just resigning himself to being there. Then with a sigh, he fished out a clean pair of boxers and some sweatpants and then made a beeline for the bathroom. He wanted another shower, and then he wanted to sleep straight through the night—no weird dreams about flying, no nightmares riddled with the color green.

He probably killed the motel's water heater with how long he stood under it, cranked all the way to HOT, trying to wash away all the little things—and big things—that were bothering him. There was corrupt Matches Malone who somehow expected Clark to trust him when every fiber of his being told him to have the man arrested by the FBI; there were dead girls turning up in the river and questionably ethical mayors with agendas Clark couldn't fathom; there was Dick Grayson undercover in a drug ring that maybe connected all the dots; then there was Hemingford Gray doing his best to romance Clark AND play red herring; not to mention that tame, ultimately pleasant kiss they had shared; and then there was Bruce Wayne who made Clark feel like he was drowning in a pretty nice way.

Clark watched the water swirl around the drain and off to wherever water went and imagined that it was taking his worries with it. It didn't work, but it was a nice idea.

Red and steaming, he grabbed a towel and dried off enough to throw on his boxers. He looked around confusedly for a minute before realizing that the sweatpants he'd thought he'd had with him weren't in the bathroom at all. He must have dropped them somewhere on the way to the bathroom. Rubbing at his hair with the towel, he walked back into the main room in a haze of steam. He squinted into the dim room and decided that he really was out of it: he'd dropped his sweatpants smack in the middle of the floor and hadn't even noticed. He chuckled softly at himself, strolled to the pants and stooped to pick them up.

"You were missing for two days," a voice said from the shadows.

Clark's heart leapt to his throat. He squeaked and stumbled, dropped his towel, and never managed to grab his pants. Barely regaining his balance, he stared into the dark, seeking out the voice.

After a moment, a familiar shape all in black came into focus before his eyes.

Clark let out a ragged breath and clutched at his heart.

After thinking about it for a moment, Clark decided he was a fool to have been so surprised: of course Bruce Wayne could get into his motel room. The guy could probably break into Fort Knox with an ink pen.

"Detective," Clark said, still a little winded, "we've got to work out a system or something. Is a phone call too much to ask?"

There was a silent pause during which Clark suddenly became aware of the fact that he was standing in plain sight in nothing but a pair of boxers that were starting to feel pretty flimsy. He let his hand fall from over his chest where his heart was steadying at last and then didn't know what to do with his hands at all. As a last resort, he fidgeted; he ran his hands through his hair, and then let them fall again. He crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them; wiped water from his forehead and then ruffled his hair; crossed his arms again and then gave up, letting them hang at his sides.

He couldn't see Bruce's eyes, but he knew they were watching him and it made his skin feel tight and tingly. Clark imagined that they were having a minor contest of wills and that he was losing.

"Where were you?" Bruce asked finally, as if Clark hadn't spoken at all.

Clark frowned. It was a stupid thing to be upset about, he guessed, but he didn't like the idea that Bruce expected Clark to explain himself and where he went and why. Especially not when Bruce Wayne himself was this mysterious specter that came and went at will without so much as a by-your-leave.

Clark refused to answer at all. Instead, he stooped and retrieved his towel and sweatpants. He defiantly strode back to the steamy bathroom, deposited the towel on the towel bar and took a moment to slip into his sweatpants. He wiped a hand across the foggy mirror, looked at himself and felt his cheeks heat at the wet, half-naked picture he presented. The flush didn't make a difference because he was already red and starting to sweat a little from the hot shower. His eyes were overly bright and his mouth too red. He looked, well…

If Bruce had been staring at him, Clark couldn't blame him: he looked a bit of an overheated mess. It was a lost cause, but he swept his damp hair back off his face. Then he took a fortifying breath and made to move back to the main room only to find himself face to face with Bruce Wayne. He had moved away from his dark little corner and was now standing just out of reach of the light directly before the bathroom door. And he was, Clark noticed dumbly, indeed, staring at him. Had he watched Clark slip into his sweatpants; stare at himself in the mirror and run his fingers through his hair?

Clark took another step forward, letting his eyes adjust again to the darker space.

With the light from the bathroom, it was pretty clear to see the direction Bruce's eyes took down Clark's naked torso and then down further. Clark swallowed and those dark blue eyes shot to his throat and then finally, finally back up to his face.

"Um," Clark said stupidly.

Bruce wasn't crowding him or anything, he was a good six feet away, but Clark's body acted like the man was much closer. He went hot, so hot he imagined that he went even redder, which was maybe impossible.

Bruce's fingers flexed at his sides. Clark dropped his eyes, looked left, right, then down, and then shuffled forward. He didn't look up again until he was toe to toe with Bruce's spotless black sneakers.

Bruce's face was granite, but his eyes were almost black with some kind of emotion he couldn't hide so quickly. The muscles at his jaw flexed and jerked as if he were clenching his teeth rhythmically. And he was close, so close, and not pushing Clark away. Clark leaned a little closer, knew Bruce could feel the heat coming off him in waves. "I'm maybe reading things wrong," Clark started. "Or maybe I'm not. But, tell me if I'm wrong, either way."

He leaned in even closer, could smell how clean Bruce smelled. "Um…is this okay?" Clark asked, a little low, a little breathless.

"No," Bruce said. Then he grabbed the back of Clark's head, jerked him forward hard and then…

pointedly didn't kiss him.

They were, what Clark estimated, one fourth of a centimeter apart and annoyingly not kissing.

"Jesus," Clark whispered and tried to move forward. They were sharing breath and their noses were brushing together on every inhale. Bruce's hand tightened in his hair hard, keeping him at bay. As if he couldn't stop himself, Bruce's other hand came up to brush questioningly over Clark's face, barely a whisper of a touch. His fingers ghosted over his temple, down his cheeks, and then just a little roughly over his bottom lip. It made Clark lose his balance a little and somehow his hands ended up on Bruce's hips, his palms pressed into the muscles and bone that defined his tapering middle. He let out a little gasp and Bruce's eyelids fluttered just once.

"Stop," Bruce barked roughly. "Now," he added. But his hands were still moving—over Clark's face, through his hair, down his jaw…

"No," Clark said. His hands stilled on Bruce's hips then squeezed once, making them both shudder, though Bruce's was so small that Clark questioned if the man had moved at all.

"I'm giving you your first, last, and only warning, Mr. Kent: whatever you think you're trying to do here, it won't work."

"It's not just me," Clark said defiantly. "We're both in this." He squeezed again and heard Bruce swallow hard.

And then, suddenly, Clark was pushed away so forcefully that he was surprised he didn't fall. It seemed a miracle that he righted himself at all and he had no idea how he pulled it off, he was just glad that he did.

When he looked again at Bruce's eyes, there was a measure of surprise there, but he quickly shut it away again. The cold, intimidating routine was back and Clark felt the loss of the moment so strongly he could taste it.

Bruce took a few steps further away from Clark and the room was suddenly colder to Clark. The heat of his shower—hell, the heat of standing that close to Bruce—had all faded away and he felt hollow.

Bruce's voice was as harsh as he had ever heard it when he spoke: "I don't know what you are, Mr. Kent—"

"Call me Clark."

"—but I'm not above using it to my advantage."

Clark went still for a moment and studied the rigid posture of the shadowy figure across the room from him. It was almost impossible to believe that not a minute ago the same man had caressed his face like a lover. Clark felt the loss of the moment painfully, but had no idea what to do to win it back. Perhaps he and Bruce were always going to have this strange, twisted attraction to each other and never do anything about it? Clark felt some strange panic at the idea.

"So that's how you're going to play this?" he asked. "You're going to change the subject and act like nothing's going on?" He laughed then, mostly because he couldn't shake the feeling that Bruce was behaving like a five-year-old.

"We're going to discuss business," Bruce said. He took another step deeper into the dark, closer to the door like a man on the brink of running.

"Business?" Clark laughed again and just felt tired all of a sudden. He settled heavily onto the bed and grabbed the nearest shirt he could find. He needed another barrier between him and the intimacy of a moment ago; it only confused him.

"Sure, we can discuss business. I told you before: I want to help."

"And if you're serious about that, I have a job for you."

"Look: I'm tired of fighting with you," Clark said, having anticipated, apparently, the wrong conversation entirely. He paused, held up a finger, cleared his throat and asked, "Excuse me? Would you repeat that?"

"I have a job for you," Bruce said and Clark didn't want the smile he heard in Bruce's voice just to be his overactive imagination.

"Okay," Clark answered after a long pause. If he couldn't resolve whatever it was between him and Bruce, the least he could do was help bring a murderer to justice. "We should talk. Have a seat?"

Instead, Bruce found a bare patch of wall beside the outdated television. Nearer, but not _too _near. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, but to Clark it looked more like he was trying to think of something to do with them, not refusing to be communicative. After all, if he hadn't wanted to talk to Clark, he wouldn't have broken into his motel.

"All ears," Clark said and waited.

"How were you able to get past the alarms and security at the Beautify Gotham Campaign Headquarters?" Bruce asked.

Clark really had to think about how to answer that, and his concentration helped to hide his surprise at the question itself. Finally, he realized that he would just have to be honest, even if Bruce didn't like the answer. "I can't honestly tell you," Clark said. "I just don't know." His arms went up in a shrug and then flopped back to his knees uselessly.

"Were you trying particularly hard to avoid the motion detectors? The laser fields? The security cameras?"

Clark shook his head. "I didn't even think about them having things like that. I just thought maybe there were answers there and I should have a look. I didn't mean to ruin your…investigation," he finished, barely keeping the last word from sounding like a question. Breaking and entering sounded more accurate than "investigating" to describe what Bruce had been doing that night with his still unknown partner. If investigating were all he'd been up to, he wouldn't have needed Hemingford Gray to cover for him, after all.

Bruce studied him for a moment and Clark couldn't tell if it was to gauge the truth, or just to pick his next move. At last Bruce spoke.

"The Beautify Gotham Campaign Headquarters has the information I need to wrap up this case. I need to get in there before someone else does. Someone who wants to hide things."

Clark frowned as he thought. "You want me to break into that building again?"

"Yes," Bruce said simply and Clark felt suddenly terrified of the idea of it all happening again—the alarms, the noise, the further proof that he was not normal. Clark's hearing had taken in the whole city that night letting him hear things no man was meant to hear; had hurt him so badly his ears had bled. He wanted to help, but that desire was warring with his fear. "H-how do you know what you're looking for is still there at all?" Clark stuttered nervously. "Maybe it's been moved?"

"The building is on lockdown. It's a crime scene. Nobody has been allowed in except for cops since the day you triggered the alarm."

Clark felt his face flush with embarrassment again. "But you're a detective. Surely you can go in, have a look around?"

"I'm a homicide detective. Until they agree that this break-in has something to do with my case, I'm not allowed on the scene."

"Um…can't _you _just break in again?"

"They've increased security."

"Oh. Well…why'd you break in in the first place? Why couldn't you just get a…a search warrant and go in there?"

Bruce stared at him coldly from the dark. "This might surprise you, but I already tried that. My warrant was denied. Try to understand this, Mr. Kent: things with the case are not what they seem. There are powerful people blocking progress."

And Clark didn't know if he meant Mayor Hunt, or someone else. Was there someone out there worse than Hunt?

Clark felt like he'd just hit a brick wall, as if the dead end of the conversation had jumped up out of nowhere to knock all of his fearful questions out of his head. He swallowed his nerves. "So this is your best option, then? You need me to go back in there and…take whatever it is you didn't get the last time?"

"Yes," Bruce growled. The sound should have been just plain scary—and it was—but it was also darn sexy too. Clark decided to go see Dr. Crane again soon and work out exactly when danger started to turn him on. He pushed it from his mind and asked the question that he was most afraid to ask.

"How do you know I can do it at all? It was a fluke the last time. Maybe I'll just screw up the minute I walk through the door."

Bruce looked at him steadily. "That's why we're going to run a test."

"A test?" Clark squeaked.

"Yes." That sexy growl again and Clark realllly needed to focus, here.

"Um…when?"

"Now," Bruce said and his grin was feral.

Clark looked at the ancient alarm clock beside his bed. "It's almost ten at night."

"And?"

"Oh, well, um. Just thought you'd want to know."

"I don't. Get dressed."

Instead of being indignant about the command, Clark found himself grabbing street clothing out of his still-packed duffel and tossing them onto the bed. At Bruce's command, he was less afraid, suddenly excited to know that Bruce was giving him a chance to help. He didn't know what about him could squash his fear so quickly and he really didn't take the time to consider it. He was practically humming with energy. In fact, he was so eager, and Bruce so quiet—practically merged with the shadows in all that black that he wore—that Clark had already shucked his shirt and was tugging off his sweatpants before he remembered that the man was there at all.

When it hit him that he'd been undressing in front of Bruce, he looked up suddenly and didn't meet Bruce's eyes all. That being because Bruce's eyes were trained…ahem…elsewhere. And Clark really had to wonder how he'd ended up mostly naked in front of Bruce Wayne twice in the same day.

He cleared his throat and Bruce's eyes snapped up at last. His face was as unreadable and cold as always, but Clark wasn't buying it. He surprised himself again with what he did next—and perhaps some dormant part of him was an exhibitionist—for he made a slow show of taking his sweatpants off and sliding on his jeans.

And Bruce watched him. Unblinking and unashamed. He watched.

And just at the moment, Clark's hearing expanded, snapped to life and Clark could _hear_ Bruce's heartbeat thundering, could hear his breathing, which was deep and ragged. His face could look as unaffected as he wanted, but his body was anything but, and Clark rejoiced silently at the fact. For the first time ever, he felt like he could almost control how much he heard. He tuned in to that speedy thump, thump, thump rhythm of Bruce's heart, savored it.

Dressed at last and loaded up with his wallet, cell phone, and keys, he came and stood before Bruce, not as close as before, but still close enough. Bruce didn't look ruffled, but he did pull back as much as he could with a wall behind him.

"Look," Clark sighed, "are we ever going to talk about this?" he finished boldly.

"This?" Bruce asked, and damn he was a good actor. Clark almost let it drop because Bruce's tone of voice implied that he was a fool and a clown. He did it so effortlessly that Clark felt a creeping doubt. More than that, Bruce had his heartbeat completely under control again, steady and sure. Were the sparks between them just Clark's imagination? But then he let that doubt just go back into its hole. He wasn't imagining this.

"Yeah, 'this.' You and me. Whatever. Whatever this is between us."

"There is nothing between us to talk about, Mr. Kent."

"Are you kidding me?" Clark laughed. "We almost ki—"

But Bruce pushed away from the wall, brushed past him and moved to the door of the motel before he could finish the sentence.

"Let's go," Bruce said. Clark just shook his head and followed him out into the night.

"Where are we going?" Clark asked, resigned to let Bruce be, well, _Bruce_, for a little longer at least.

"You'll see," Bruce answered and there was something like a smile on his face when he said it. And Clark couldn't put his finger on why, but he'd be damned if it didn't remind him of Matches Malone.

To Be Continued…

Up Next, the Batcave! True Dat! And a new, dangerous player enters the story…


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Before a Live Studio Audience (Transcripts from an Unaired Episode of "U.S. Cops"), Chapter 12

Author: Mostly Harmless III

Pairings/Characters: Clark/Bruce, Clark/Matches, Clark/Hemingford. Gordon, Bullock, Kara, Lois, Jimmy, Dick.

Warnings: Adult themes, adult content, strong language. Not beta-read.

Chapter Summary: Bruce Wayne has a job for Clark. Provided Clark can pass a little test, of course…

* * *

The Story So Far:

Clark Kent has been sent to Gotham to follow Matches Malone for a reality television show. But he's getting wrapped up in a murder case that seems connected to Gotham's popular new mayor and a deadly drug called Live. Solving this case means Clark has to deal with three mysterious men who are all maybe in cahoots. Throw in the fact that Clark is developing strange abilities—coinciding with the unexplained disappearance of Superman—and things get really complicated.

In the last chapter, Clark had a visit from Bruce Wayne, asking him for his help. Bruce needs Clark to break back into the Beautify Gotham Campaign Headquarters. But does Clark have what it takes to do the job?

Our story continues…

* * *

He'd been called dangerously handsome his entire life. It was very true in so many ways. He'd ridden those looks and his well-cultivated charm to the top. He intended to stay there. But there was a thorn in his side that was making that a challenge. It needed to be removed as soon as possible. Hence this meeting.

"It's…maddening," he said to his companion and smiled his winning smile. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not at all."

The hulking man across from him was wearing a business suit. It was incongruous with what he knew of him. This man killed for a living. He was on the FBI's most wanted list for crimes he'd been paid to do. Moreover, he was a sociopath, which meant that you couldn't really insult him. He didn't see the words you hurled at him as bad things. They were facts, like a resume.

David Cain kept a cigar clenched in his teeth and squinted at his well-dressed—better dressed—companion. Cain looked alert and weary all at once. Prematurely gray, distrustful, and silent. David Cain had nothing but enemies in the world, and yet again, no reason to act against them without payment. Given enough money, Cain might have lived on Earth alone, no one left to kill.

Ultimately, he was a man who had seen how terrible the world was. That most of that terror was his own fault wasn't relevant; the end result was the same.

"Best laid plans," Cain said after a time. His voice was as weary as he was.

"How can you be certain he'll try again?"

Cain removed his cigar and studied it, then smiled a tired smile. "I know him."

"So you've said," remarked the other. He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "But you have yet to explain what you mean. After all, I know him, too."

"Not like I do. I trained him. We have…unfinished business." Cain did smile then—a real smile—and his face came alive with it. The result was horrifying.

The words, combined with the feral smile, gave his companion pause. "Trained him? He's a cop."

"He could have been so much more. He didn't take the path I carved out for him. Turned away from me. I guess I can hold a grudge for a long, long time. Maybe I'm still expecting him to change his mind. See the light. Heh."

The other man watched Cain for a moment. "If you can't make him, _ahem_, see the light, as you say, then he'll need to be taken care of in a more permanent fashion."

Cain didn't answer immediately. When he did speak, it was slowly and clearly, as if trying to make the other man understand each word as sincerely as he himself understood them. "He's a hard man to kill."

The other man's face split into a sharp grin. "Try your best."

* * *

Clark had an excruciating, nervous time waiting for Bruce to return from wherever it was he had parked. Ten minutes was plenty of time for Clark's healthy imagination to conjure all manner of scenarios. Was Bruce Wayne going to take him somewhere and do away with him once and for all? Was he going to take Clark somewhere secret and…do other things to him? Clark swallowed nervously, remembering the heat of Bruce Wayne's body, the heat in his eyes when he had been standing so close to Clark.

Yes, waiting for Bruce to return was a long, nervous time for Clark. When he did return, it wasn't in one of the cars Clark had seen Matches drive early on in their acquaintance. It was a beautiful, powerful car, to be sure, but not one he had ever seen before. It wasn't even a make or model he could identify. It was low to the ground and its metal flesh curved and rippled like muscles. It looked incredibly fast.

"Custom," Bruce said as he stepped out of the car and looked with what might have been amusement at Clark's awe-struck expression.

"It's beautiful," Clark admitted. Honesty didn't cost him anything and perhaps Bruce's cold demeanor would melt a little with compliments. It wasn't to be as Bruce just threw a curt, "Get in," at Clark and then slid behind the wheel and revved the engine.

Clark buckled in, remembering all too well how terribly Matches Malone drove. He prepared himself for the excessive speed and lack of control and found himself blinking in surprise.

Bruce Wayne was a skillful, careful driver. He didn't drive slowly, by any stretch of the imagination. A car like this wasn't meant to go slowly, after all. But Bruce controlled it with ease and grace. It seemed to purr under his masterful handling. Clark eased back in his seat and watched alternately between Bruce Wayne's handsome profile and the shifting landscape of Gotham City at night.

It was lovely. All the lights on the tall, Gothic buildings blazed and blinked like stars. The impenetrable shadows softened the harsh lines of the cruel city, and the sky that stretched above all of it painted every shape in midnight blue.

Clark wanted to ask Bruce Wayne where they were going, but was almost certain that he wouldn't get a reply. How often had both Bruce Wayne and his partner gone out of their way to keep things from him, after all?

Clark considered this truth with some sadness. Bruce's profile was stern, his gaze focused firmly ahead. It was almost as if he had decided to deal with the problem of Clark by pretending he didn't exist for the moment. How he could caress Clark's face reverently one minute and then treat him like a stranger the next, Clark didn't understand. He could only hope that whatever it was between them either resolved itself or went away.

Outside the window, the view was shifting. The buildings became squat and short and then changed into quaint, low houses. The houses became further and further apart and the spaces between each went from empty lots to tall trees. Soon, the houses, too, disappeared, leaving only dense forest. Clark hadn't imagined that Gotham had anything green left, but here was proof of his ignorance. All around them crowded tall and mysterious looking trees—tall pines and twisting oaks, and branches thick with young leaves twisting up to the nighttime sky.

The road was uneven and narrow now, but Bruce's control of the car proved absolute. Clark didn't notice a hitch or a shudder. Bruce was very familiar with this road, with driving it at night. Since Clark had never seen the man in daylight, he wasn't surprised. This time was Bruce's time, where he belonged. It was almost impossible to imagine him standing in the sunlight, Clark admitted. He was part of this time, part of this midnight world.

Quite suddenly, Bruce cranked the wheel and the car was off road. The ride did turn bumpy then, but Bruce's expression was as blank as before. Clark gripped the dash and flinched as trees seemed to loom up out of the dark, dangerously close. Bruce steered the car through them as easily as a dancer might twirl across the stage. There were no impacts, no close calls; and then, just as suddenly, they were underground, a dark mystery of rock high above them. Clark imagined that he could see bats in a frenzy of movement above him. It was probably just his imagination. Probably.

The dark inside the cave trumped anything from the forest and Clark was surprised by how ineffective the headlights of the car seemed against such blackness. When the car came to a stop inside a wide, brightly lit cavern, Clark blinked rapidly as his eyes were stinging in the glare. The cavern was tall and wide, the edges and top of it hidden from him by deep shadows.

Now he could hear the bats. He wondered if the earlier flock of them had been his imagination after all.

He was staring up through the window at the impossible space when he felt calculating eyes on him. He turned his head to see Bruce Wayne regarding him. Clark didn't understand the expression, couldn't even begin to decipher it.

"We're here," Bruce said at last and then unbuckled and exited the car. "No duh," Clark mouthed at his back. Then he fumbled out of his own seatbelt and then stepped out of the car and into Bruce Wayne's world for the first time. He was speaking before he could stop himself. Closing the door, he asked, "What is this place?"

Bruce made a small gesture, indicating the huge cavern. "Home," he said at last.

"You live here?" Clark asked with a healthy dose of shock. Nothing human needed to live down here. This was a place for monsters.

Bruce opened his mouth, then let it snap shut. He made a small shrug as if the answer was too difficult or unimportant to give. When he started walking, Clark hurried to follow him. Within seconds, more of the cave was revealed to him than he could see from the raised tarmac where the car was parked. They took a natural rock stairway down and down. It wound around itself in a graceful curve and ended in a roughly hewn room made of rock and stone. At the center of the grand cavern was a high cluster of screens and monitors, all connected to a massive control board like something from a science fiction movie. Captain Kirk would have been well and truly comfortable here, Clark mused.

Clark wanted to linger and study the giant screens that were flashing with information from all over the world in dozens of languages, but Bruce didn't stop or even seem to consider the machines. Clark hurried to follow his ceaseless stride and was surprised to see a series of doors that led to other places. Bruce took the one on the right and Clark followed him. He kept craning back around over his shoulder, trying to see what might lie in the other rooms. He felt like Alice in Wonderland, everything down the rabbit hole was strange and curious and dangerous and exciting.

The new space where Clark found himself made his jaw drop. "It's…a gym," he said, eyes roaming over the punching bags, free weights, boxing ring, and more. Half of the room was in shadow, but Clark could just make out the light fixtures hanging above that would illuminate it. There were light switches on the wall near where Bruce was standing and Clark wanted very much to ask him to flip everything on, to let him see all that this underground gymnasium had to offer.

Bruce Wayne seemed to look around as if imagining what Clark saw. "Yes," he said at last.

"You built this?" Clark asked. "All of this?"

"I did."

Clark shook his head. "But…how did you get all of this down here? The tarmac and the computers and…are those uneven parallel bars?"

"Yes," Bruce said and Clark was sure he was smiling, just a little.

"How?" Clark asked and smiled back at him.

"Time," Bruce said, then added, "patience." And that much was obvious, but Clark guessed what he really wanted to know was "Why?" and "When?" and "What am I doing here?" He knew he'd only get the answer to one of these things.

Bruce reached out a hand and flipped the row of switches one at a time. There were corresponding hums and clicks and then the side of the room that had been in darkness was set ablaze with light.

What it revealed left Clark…

Well…

Clark was very underwhelmed. The room was completely empty. There were soft exercise pads on the ground and nothing else of note. A kind of barrier had been erected between the side of the room with equipment and the empty side of the room. The barrier was strangely made with orange traffic cones, lined up neatly with almost OCD precision. Clark could easily imagine Bruce arranging the cones meticulously, using a measuring tape to place them exactly four feet apart. Each cone read "Gotham City DWP."

Clark blinked at them. "Did you steal those?"

"I didn't steal them," Bruce answered.

"Did Matches steal them and sell them to you?" Clark pressed.

Bruce made a small sound in his throat that Clark would have called a laugh had it come from any other man. But, unsurprisingly, Bruce's face was as unfriendly and smooth as ever.

"No, Detective Malone did not steal them, either."

"You don't have to cover for him if he did," Clark said generously.

"I'm not covering for him."

"Because stealing traffic cones is something that Matches would do. Uh, Detective Malone, I mean. He would absolutely steal traffic cones. Like a fraternity prank. He was in a fraternity, wasn't he? He's the kind of guy you think of being in a fraternity. Playing beer pong."

"Clark," Bruce said in a tone so forceful that it made Clark square his shoulders. "You're stalling because you're nervous."

And Clark wanted to say, "Am not!" but also didn't want to sound twelve, so he just took a deep breath and decided to stop babbling. And, okay, he had been stalling and damn the man for knowing that. He did notice that Bruce was starting to call him 'Clark' more, which was a win in Clark's book and enough to cheer him up some so that he forgot that he was nervous. A little, at least.

"Good?" Bruce asked.

"Yes. Fine," Clark answered. Bruce made a small motion with his hand, indicating for Clark to follow him. Bruce led him past the exercise equipment and down to the far side of the empty space. Embedded in the back wall Clark hadn't seen before was the glass front of a booth. Inside it, he could see towers and towers of equipment riddled with flashing lights of every color. There were serious looking buttons and wires winding around the racks and bolted to the ceiling.

"That's the control room," said Bruce. "I'll be in there."

Clark nodded. "And where will I be?"

"Out here, of course," answered Bruce. "Completing the test."

Clark's heart did a flip-flop as his nervousness flared again. "Test. Right, okay. So, what do I have to do?" Clark asked and pushed up his sleeves.

"Make it to the other side," Was Bruce's simple answer.

* * *

Clark stood before the booth, looking at the long stretch of space leading to the end of the room. Behind him, Bruce Wayne was sitting in the control room, a headset over his ears, and a small microphone extending from the left ear to his mouth. He looked serious and professional surrounded by all the equipment. Clark had no idea what to expect.

This was just an ordinary room with exercise equipment over there and nothing over here. Bruce had pointed out a couple cameras on the ceiling he hadn't seen before, but that was all there was to see. He had already walked down it with Bruce. How could walking down it by himself be any different? There was nothing dangerous about the room that he could tell. Then again, there had been nothing dangerous about the Beautify Gotham Campaign headquarters, and look at what a disaster that had turned out to be!

He half wondered if an Indiana Jones style obstacle course might materialize out of thin air once the test started. In his imaginings, blow darts erupted from the wall, all aimed at his neck; giant axes swung from the ceiling with deadly grace; big holes opened at his feet. Laser beams were everywhere! His imagination made the coming test very dangerous and exciting. What adventure was in store for him? Was he brave enough to face it head on?

There was a loud beep, a louder hiss of static, and then Bruce's voice was booming over a loudspeaker.

"There will be a countdown and then the exercise will begin."

Almost immediately, a pleasant voice started the countdown. "Ten, nine, eight…"

"Okay, Smallville," Clark whispered to himself. "You can do this. Cowboy up." He thought about Lois, how she would have been fearless.

"Five, four, three…"

When it hit one, Clark started walking. He frowned in confusion.

Because nothing was happening.

The reality of the test was pretty dull in comparison to his wild imaginings. And absolutely nothing continued to happened. He walked and the room stayed boring. He walked and the room seemed to get even MORE boring, which he wouldn't have thought possible a minute before. The only thing of note was when he felt a soft swish of something moving past his ear. But when he looked to follow what had caused it, he didn't see a thing. And nothing jumped out at him or attacked him. No axes. No lasers. Not a single blow dart.

And all too soon, he was standing at the end of the (questionably pilfered) orange traffic cones and that pleasant voice was saying, "Test complete." Clark guessed it must have taken him about five minutes or so to walk very slowly down the room. Like taking a stroll to the mailbox on the corner or something.

Clark let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He felt silly now for having been nervous at all. Bruce Wayne was apparently playing a practical joke on him. He'd probably give him the real test now that the joke was over. The man in question exited the booth. Clark noticed that his face was bloodless and that he looked a little shell-shocked. It gave Clark a start. He didn't seem as cocky as a guy would who had just gotten away with a stupid prank.

"Um, are you okay?" he asked when Bruce was beside him. Well, not exactly _beside_ him. Bruce, for whatever reason, was standing a good eight feet away. Despite the distance, Clark could actually see Bruce's wild pulse in his throat. It was…kind of distracting. And there was sweat on his brow. Clark didn't know why, but Bruce was freaking out a little and having a hard time getting himself back together.

"Fine," Bruce said very softly. "I'm fine."

Clark felt unnerved by Bruce's behavior; though it hardly made a dent into how relieved he felt that the test had been nothing more than a strange initiation. He put his hands in his pocket and rocked back on his heels a few times.

"So the test is over? Do you need me to walk back the other way?"

Bruce's eyes went wide. "No," he said quickly. "Once was enough."

"Well, okay! Wish high school had been that easy," Clark chuckled. "Just walk down the hallway and BOOM," he said and slapped his hands together. Bruce jumped at the sound, but Clark just kept on talking. "Done in minutes! Man," he said with a laugh, "I was worried for nothing."

Bruce was…gawking at him. Yes, gawking was the word. "Easy?" he said in that same soft whisper. "Worried for nothing?"

"Well, yeah. That was a walk in the park. Well, not _the park_, but, you know, a walk. Literally!"

Bruce looked worse, somehow. Clark squinted at him. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked, then took a chance and took a few steps to Bruce, who visibly stiffened and seemed to lean away. Clark got the hint and stopped.

"So…" Clark began, grasping at any straw to lessen the awkward moment, "what does all this mean? Did I, uh, pass?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "If you still want to help, I have a job for you."

"Just like that, huh?" Clark asked with real surprise.

"Just like that," Bruce agreed and then waited.

Clark felt like Bruce was dissecting him with his eyes. He now knew what a frog in a high school science class felt like, pinned down and morbidly waiting to be sliced up. "Um…so now what?" he asked.

"I take you home," Bruce said. He had regained some of his composure and was second by second becoming calmer, less obviously shaken, by what Clark didn't know.

Clark swallowed at the idea of Bruce taking him home. "And then?" he said a little hoarsely.

Bruce Wayne, of course, wasn't going to let a little thing like sexual attraction or tension keep him from being a cold, indifferent machine. "I'll send instructions by midday," he said. Coldly. Indifferently. Mechanically.

And Clark had the sudden, uncomfortable realization that he had a thing for cold, indifferent machines. That explained Lois pretty handily, now that he thought about it.

"Oh," said Clark and decided not to dwell on this anymore. It was unhealthy. "Home. Great." But home wasn't great because his 'home' now was a terrible hotel and not nearly as thrilling as spending time with Bruce who hung out in amazing subterranean hideouts with custom cars and advanced technology. Bruce who Clark wanted to talk to more, to ask a million questions. Bruce who, for whatever reason, clearly wanted to get rid of Clark as soon as possible; all but shoved him back to the tarmac without actually touching him. That kind of took the wind out of his sails, actually.

And before Clark could say, "Wanna come in and have lots of sex?" Bruce Wayne had dropped him back off at his crap hotel room and sped off into the night again in his amazing car.

Clark stood beneath the flickering fluorescent light above his door, staring after him. "Well…that was bizarre," he said to no one. He yawned hugely, unlocked the door, slipped inside, and promptly climbed into his uncomfortable bed. His last thought as sleep tugged him under forcefully was that he didn't know why he was so tired. After all, Bruce Wayne's test had just been walking down a perfectly mundane room. It's not like he'd run a gauntlet or anything.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Clark, he had, in fact, run a gauntlet. Bruce Wayne was desperately trying to figure out how it was that Clark didn't seem to notice that he'd walked through laser fields without disturbing a single beam. How he'd dodged projectiles with superhuman speed. He'd even looked at one of them as it whizzed past his ear with an expression on his (handsome, handsome, handsome) face as serene as a Zen Master's. Bruce shook himself out of his distractions. He couldn't let Clark's—_Kent's_ he scolded himself—good looks distract him from the issue at hand. Kent had casually stepped over about two dozen booby traps, and—as smoothly as stopping to tie his shoe—avoided a couple of swinging axes Bruce had put in the ceiling just because _why not_.

Bruce didn't turn around when Alfred entered the booth. "How did it go?" Alfred asked. "Did you have to stop the test immediately to keep our intrepid TV employee out of danger?"

Bruce took a moment to answer. "In a word: no." He gestured at a monitor where very clear surveillance footage was playing. It was slowed down extremely and even then Kent's imposing body was a blur.

Alfred's gasped. "But, but…this is high speed footage!" he said.

"Over 3000 frames per second," Bruce agreed.

"But for him to be blurred like that! How…fast was he moving?"

"Kent completed the whole thing in less than 15 seconds."

"How can that be?"

"Simply put, that man isn't human," Bruce said with a slight tremor to his voice.

Alfred watched the footage with wide eyes and his jaw on the floor. Kent had just evaded several darts aimed at his head with an effortless, balletic slide. "Good lord," Alfred said. "What…is he?"

"I don't know," said Bruce. "But I intend to find out."

To be continued…

Up next, Clark and Matches have a mission to complete!

* * *

So, this file has been rotting on my hard drive since June 15, 2011. That makes it...old. Sorry if you've been interested in what happened next and forced to wait so long. If you've come back to read it despite the long wait, thanks so much! For anybody new reading this, welcome! And a premature apology for the pain you're about to join in on that all the other readers have been enduring for a few years. Comments and critiques always welcome. Love to hear from people!

Anyway, hi, everybody! Thanks for reading!


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